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The Speaker 

A Quarterly Magazine 

Vol. I. 




Emtid bv 


PimuiBID IT 



Digitized bvGoO^^IC 

Copyright, 1907 
ij Ftftnon Bnithen 

Digitized bvGoO^^IC 

be Sp)ealfeer 

Voliiiiw L 

DECEMBER, 1906. 

No. 1 

T- %H» editors offer this flist number of Thb 
I Sfbaebe id the hope that their apology will 
I be Boggested by the merit of the literature, 
1 the quality of work in its adaptation and 
arrangement, and the inherent human interest 

I which characterizea the selections. They trust 

that the collection will be fonnd of pennanent value. An 
effort baa been made to avoid that which d^ends for its 
effect upon any vocal or gymnastic trick. The Boccessfol 
reader is an honest interpreter of life — not a clever mimio 
of some of the accidents of its raanifestations. He is a hn- 
manitarian in the broadest, beet sense of that 
Forewonl word; and he ia auccCBSful in proportion to 

the correctness of hia sympathy and the 
power of his imagination. 

There la a rapidly-growing class of read^v whose ideala 
an in the direction of interpretation and not exhibition, 
and to these the editors offer this magazine. They humbly 
hope that they have not wholly miannderatood the needs 
and requirements of the class who honestly pray ; " Write 
me as one who loves his fellow-man." 
« « « 
Expression seema a fundamental need of himian life. 
From infancy to the end we are atruggling with the impulse 
to manifest what is within. We are taught that man is 
made in the image and likeness of Qod. If he can eipreas 
thia divinity that is within him he is an artist. Ar^s ma- 
terial is the good, the true, the beautiful, found in perfec- 
tioa in God alone; Art ia alwaya trying to 
J?™™^ .<. express ttie thoughts and purposes of the Per- 
ta^Ttc '^ °°^' ""^ *"' accounta for the "Joy of 
^gyj the working," as well as for the unrest, the 

sense of defeat, that makes even a Shakes- 
peare aay, "Wilh-wbat I most enjoy, contented least" The 
Infinite is Arf s ideal, its reat, its ever-flying goal. This ia 
ihe foundation of our reverence for Art, for uiat manifeai^ 
ation of it which interests os. 



So iotiinate is the relation betreen Bonl and body that 
any a^tation in the former produces, a Tieible effect upon 
the latter. Indeed, each class of emotions has an outside 
manifeetation peculiar to itself. To this phenomenon add 
that marvelous social gift which makes the beholder under- 
stand these manifestations instinctively, and we have the 
principles upon which all representatiTe and manifestiva 
art is based. 

It is true that elocution has been denied a place among 
Qie serious arts; indeed, it is gradgingly admitted to the 
lank of legitimate entertainment, but be assured we are 
at the dawn of a better day. The work of a few conscien- 
tious, scholarly artists has wrought a significant change in 
the public attitude toward the vocal interpretation of maa- 
terpieces of literature. When it is properly presented it ia 
inevitable that a high place be conceded to this work in the 
class-room and on the platform. 

If the chief purpose of education is to inspire the young 
soul to tangible effort toward perfecting a n<Ale character, 
Place of In- then surely we may claim a place for the 
terpretattve vivifying interpretation of literature, that 
Reading in an literature which ia a criticism of life — " Life 
Edacational relieved of the accidents of the common- 
Scneme place, made incamate by the magic of 

speech," Shall one be found to dispute that its value ia 
greater, incalculably, than the mere acquisition of facts, 
unrelated, uncorrected facta ? The GradgrindB are not all 
dead, and the effect of the protest be^n by Charles Dickens 
has not yet been wholly accompliahed. When it is accomp- 
lished, be sure there will no longer be this blind, stupid 
neglect of this most valuable means for training the minds 
and hearts of children, Darwin complained that fact-grind- 
ing had destroyed his imagination and made Shakespeare 
nauseate him. Goethe thanked heaven for saving him from 
the danger he once was in of being " shut up in the chamel 
hoose of science." 

There is nothing so splendid as human life, vrith its 
iB}rriad facets catching color from the movement and stresa 
of the straggle with temptation, reflecting in infinite ta- 


die speaker > 

irie^ the effects of spirit acting upon Bpirit, and OTer all 
and through all that constant tendency to manifest at least 
.an arc of me circle:' 

" God's greatness flowing ronod oar incompleteness, 
'Bound our restlessness, His rest" 

That is the material from which literature is created, but 
like music literature needs to be r&«reated. Without the 
interpreting voice the printed page Is as incomplete as the 
score without the orchestra. The reason that this has been 
so slowlj recognized is not so much the fault of the public 
aa of the reader. In no other art is it so difficult to be honest, 
ResponslMl- The reader's own perBonality is his instru- 
ity for Hl»- ment, and to know one's self, to be able to see 

'Conceptloiu one's own work objectiyely, and to judge it 
without bias or prejudice reqnirea a poise seldom attained; 
indeed, few are conscious of the necessity of attaining it 
The reader has imagined that his work was done when he 
made people laugh or stare. He has been engrossed in 

-something that passed for technique, has imagined that 
such an exhibition would take the place of thought, when 
he should know that the truth upon which all art rests ia 
that expression is a resvit; the cause is spiritual activity. 
What wonder that true sonls have stopped their ears and 
cried vrith indignation: "You would play upon me; you 
would seem to know my stops. Thou^ you can fret m^ 
you cannot play upon me." 

However, let me r^)eat; we are at ttie davm of a happier 
day. People are begmning to show that they are ready to 
take their finj^rs from their ears, tor there is a cult of 
The Cult ot the true faith who realize that " the without 
tJio Tne ia the test of the within." Th^ are honest. 

Faith conscientious interpreters of life so far as 

taste and judgment and insight have been vouchsafed them. 
They are willing to let life stand as it is ; to let humor come 
from character or situation, not from the smartness of the 
reader; pathos from the inevitable sadness of human life, 
not from Qie reader's sentimentality. 
• • * 

Many of the selections in this magazine are adapted and 
.abridged. From a few given facts, a few actions taken oat 


4 €rfit %9tahtt 

of the life of a character, the reader must round out a com- 
plete and genuine]; veraciona personality. It is gratuitous 
advice to suggest that the first step in the preparation 
should be a stud; of the book from which the selection is 
made. That is surely patent even to the more supei-fieial. 
_ _ The conscientious student will not stop here. 

ddT^n^ He will follow out the lines of thought sug- 
*^ geeted, will bring all his knowledge and ex- 
perience of life to his aid, until every line of the extract is 
significant witti a meaning that ihe reader conveys by voice, 
gesture, intonation, pause, all the involuntary things which 
have come in his best moments with his characters and over 
which in the process of study he has obtained conscious 
control. It is nearly impossible to conceal the real attitude 
and set up in its st^d the outside signs of a fictitious inner 
condition. Does not this statement contain a broad hint 
as to the most reasonable and effective method of study? 
The reader who wants his audience to remember his pic- 
ture when he is foiffotten, to be uplifted and thrilled by its 
glow, must go on nis knees and pray for " The Artist* s 

The night has a thousand eyee, 

And the day but one ; 
Yet the light of the bright world dies 

With the dying sun. 

The mind has a thousand eyes. 

And the heart but one ; 
Yet the light of a whole life dies 

When love is done. 

— BowdUlon^ 


at %i9eaka > 

The Artist's Secret 


{From "DreamB," published by Little, Brown tc Co., 
Boston, MaBS.) 

_ ^HERB was an artiBt once, and he painted a pi©- 
I ^ ■ ■* I tore. OUier artists had colore ridier and rarer, 
III and painted more notable pictures. He painted 
' 1 his with one color; there was a wonderfal red 
I glow on it; and the people went np and down 
I aayiiig, " We like the picture; we like the glow." 

The other artiflts came and aaid, " Where does he get hia 
color from ? " The; asked him, and he smiled and said, 
" I cannot tell yon " ; and worked on with his head beat 

And one went to the far East and bought costly pigments, 
and made a rare color and painted, but after a tune the 
picture faded. Another read in the old books, and made a 
color rich and rare, but when he had put it on the picture 
it was dead. 

Bnt the artist painted on. Always the work got redder 
and redder, and the artist grew whiter and whiter. At last 
one day they fonnd bim dead before his picture, and they 
took hun np to bury him. The other men looked aboat in 
all the pots and crucibles, but they fonnd nothing they had 

And when they nndresfled him to put his apraTe^othes on 
him they found above his left breast the ma:^ of a wound — 
it was an old, old wound, that must have been there all 
his life, for the edges were old and hardened ; but Death, 
who seals all things, had drawn the edges together and 
closed it up. 

And they buried him. And still the people went about 
saying, " Where did he find his color from ? " 

And it came to pass that after a while the artist was for* 
gotten, but the yrctk lived. 


The History Lesson from 


[This extract is from the transletioa used by Uande 
Adams. It was made bj Louis N. Parker, and is published 
b; R. A. Buasell. Attention is also called to the Miiror 
Scene with Mettemich, at the end of the third act, and the 
scene on the Field of Wagram. — Eoitobs.] 

T^"^^^^HB genius of Rostand has woven an absorbing 
I romance oat of the meager details of ibe life 
I of the Duke of Reichstadt^ the only sod of Uie 
1 great Napoleon, he whom the mighty con- 
I quOTor designed to be heir to the world. The 
I actios takes place in the boy's twentieth year. 
His grandfather, the Emperor of Aiistria, although devoted 
to the child, is disgusted by the presence in bis court of the 
son of Austria's arch enemy. I^e unfortunate youth is as 
eaglet in captivity in a double sense. He is virtaally a 
prisoner in the Austrian court, and his soul which throbs 
with the mighty impulses of his great father, is imprisoned 
in a poor, frail body, upon which consumption has already 
set its fatal seal. It is the policy of Prince Mettemich, the 
Austrian Prime Minister, to prevent the boy's developing 
any strengUi of character for fear he may wish to emulate 
his father. Accordingly, he is surrounded by foolish in- 
triguers, who plot to keep him ignorant of his father's his- 
tory, and to force him to recognize himself as Austrian 
rather than French. A strict censorship is eiercised over 
bis books and other sources of infonnation, but he obtains 
the truth from a little French dancing girl of the court, 
who memorizes whole pages of history in order that she 
may repeat them to him when they are alone together. 

One day the Duke is seized wiUi a violent fit of coughing 
OB the parade ground and returns to his room unexpectedly 

•OiwV»> <*<»• ■>r Boben Howard BumII. 


Ci>e %9taket 7 

to fiod Sedlinzky, Prefect of the Anatrian police, oq all 

tmm under the ^ble, piecing together acnne sciapa of papet 

vhich had fallen from the waste basket. 

Tke Duke. — How are you, Sedlimky? 

Sedlinzky {yerj mnch embarrasBed, Bcramblee to his feet) — 

The Dvke. — An accident Excuse me. Jnst came in. 
(Enter the Archduchess and the Doctor.) 

Th« Duke. — Ah 1 1 feared as mudi t Tbey've frightened 7011. 

Tke Archduchess.— They told me— 

The Dvie. — It was nothing. The doctor, too. I'm not ill. 
Nothing. A choking. So I left parade. I had been 
shouting. Doctor, von're a nuisance. 

(To Sedlinzky, who is sidling toward the door.) 
Twas very kind of yon to sort my papers. Here's a letter 
that you have not read. 

Count Dietrichstein [who came in a moment ago]. — ^I think 
you treat him rather harshly, Highness. 

The Archduchess. — Is not the Doke at perfect liberty? 

Count Dietrichstein. — Of coors^ the Dnke is not a prisoner, 

The Duie.— 

I like that " but" I hope you feel its value 1 

Qood Lord, I'm not a. prisoner, " but " — that's all I 

" But " — not a prisoner, " bat " — that is the word, 

The formula ! A prisoner F Oh, not a moment t 

" But " there are always people at my heels, 

A prisoner ? Not I ! Tou Imow I'm not ; 

But if I risk a stroll across the park, 

A hidden eye bloeaoras behind each leaf. 

Of course not a prisoner, " but " let anyone 

Seek private speech with me, beneath each hedge, 

Dp spring the mushroom ear. I'm truly not 

A prisoner, " but " when I ride, I feel 

The delicate attention of an escort 

I'm not the least bit in the world & prisoner, 

"But" I'm the second to unseal my letters. 

Not at all prisoner, " but " at night they post 

A lackey at my door — look I there he goes. 

I, Dnke of Seichstadt, a prisoner? Never! never] 

I prisoner ? No I I'm n<rt a prisoner — " but " — t 


8 ctie ftpealtet 

Dietrichttein. — ^HiglmeeB, I came to ftnnoance Obeoaoa, jooi 

The Duke. — Ahl for my hietoiy leesonl I^et him ccone. 
Oood-day, dear Botoil Be seated. 

(Obenaus and Dietrichstein take chairs on one side of 
the table, on which Obenaus places his books and 
notes. The Duka site facing them, sharpening a 

I'm all attention. Let me Bharpen fhia 

To note a date or jot dovn an idea. 
Oheruau. — ^WeTl take oor work np where we last left off. 

Eiffhte^ bandied and five, I think? 
The jDwfce.— Eiactly. 

Obenaue. — In eighteen hnndred and six — 
The Duke. — Did no event make that year memorable? 
0benau3. — Which, my Lord? 
The Duke (blowing the dost off the pencil) — ^Why, eighteen 

hundred and five. 
Obenaus. — 

I b^ your pardon. 

I thought you meant — ^h'm — Desti^ 

Was crael to the righteous cause. We'll cast 

Only & fleeting glance at hapless hours. 

When the philosopher, with pensive gaze — 
The Dvke. — And so in eighteen fire, sir, nothing happened? 
Obenaus. — 

A great event, my Lord ! I had forgotten. 

The restoration of the Calendar. 

A little later, having challenged England, 

Spain — 
The Duke (demurely). — And the emperor? 
Obetums. — ^Which emp — ? 
The Duie.—ilj father. 
Obenaus. — He — he — 
7%e 77wb0.— Had he not left Bologne? 
Obetiaus. — Oh, yee. 
The Puis.— Where was he, then? 
Obenaus. — Wei!, as it happened, here. 
The Duke (with mock amazement). — ^Indeed? 
Dietrichstein (hastily). — He took great interest in Bavaria I 
Obenaus. — Your father's wishes in the Pressburg Treaty, as 
far as that w^it, chimed with those of Austria. 


die %0eaket » 

The Duke.— What was the Preasbnig Treaty? 

Obetuaa. — The agreement wMcli closed an era. 

The Duke. — There I I've Bmashed my point! 

Obenatu. — In eighteen hnndred and seren — 

ITiB Duke. — So soon F How quick ! Strange epoch 1 Nothing 
happened in it I 

Obenaut. — Kothing of conset^nence till eighteen eight Yet 
let OS note the treat? of Tilsit 

The Dvie. — ^Was nothing done but making treaties ? 

Obenaas. — Europe — 

The Dvie. — I see. A general sarrey ? 

Obenatu. — I'll come to details when we'Te — 

The Dvke.—Hii nothing happen? 



Obenans. — ^I — 

rieruic— What? What happened? Won't you tell me ? 

Obenatu. — ^Well — I hardly know — you're m a merry hu- 
mor — 

The Duke.— Yon hardly know? Then, gentlemrai. 111 tell 
yon I The sixth October, eighteen-fire — 

Obenaaa and Dietrichstein (leaping to their feet). — ^Eh? 

The Duke.— 

When he was least expected, when Yienna, 
Watching the Eagle hover ere he swooped. 
Sighed with relief. The blow la aimed at London 1 
Having left Straesburg, crossed the Bhine at Kehl, 
The Emperor — 

Obenaas. — Emperor I 

The Duke. — ^Tee! and yon know which! Marchea tlmag^ 
Wiirtemberg, marches through Baden — 

Dte/ricfcgfem.— Great Heavens ! 

The Duke.— 

Qivee Austria a morning song, 
With drums by Soult, and trumpets by Muratl 
At Wertingen and Angflbui^ leaves Ms Marshals 
With here and there a victory to play with — 

Obenaut. — My Lord I 


10 ctie %ptaiitt 

The Duke.— 

Pursues with wonderful manoeiiTree, 
Airivee at Ulm before he's changed his boota, 
Bids Ney take Elcfaingen, seta down and writes 
A joyous, terrible and calm despatch, 
Prepares the aflsanlt: — the seventeenth Octob^ 
Sees seven thonsand AostriaiiB disarmed. 
And eighteen generals at Hie hen^s feet ; 
And then he etaits again I 

Dietrichstein. — My Lordl 

The Duke. — NoTember finds him at SchSnbnum, deeping 
in my bedroom. 

Ohenaus. — Bnt ! — 

The Duke.— 

He pursues ! hie foes are in his hand ! 

One night he saya, " To-morrow " ! and to-morrow 

Says, galloping along the bannered front — 

A spot of gray among his brilliant staff, — 

" Soldiers, we'll finish with a thunderbolt 1 " 

The anny is an ocean. He awaits 

The rising sun, and places with a smile 

This risen sun athwart his history 1 

Ohenaus. — Oh, DietrichsteiiL 1 

The Duke.— So there! 

Dietrichstein. — Oh, ObenaoBl 

The Duke.— 

Terror and death ! Two Emperors beaten by one I 
And twenty tlumsand prisoners I 

Obenaua. — I beseech you I People mi^t hear I 

The Duke.— 

When the campaign was over — 

The corpses floating on the freezing lake — 

Uy Qrandsire seeks my father in his camp I 

Obenaus. — My Lord I 

The Duke. — His camp ! 

Obenaus. — Will nothing keep you quiet? 

The Duke. — And so my Father grants my Qrandsire peace 1 

Dietrichstein. — If any heard you I 


Ctie %ifta%n ii 


And the conquered bannera 

DiBtribatedl Eight to the town of Paris— the 

Senate fifty. Fifty to Notre Dame. And 

Banners t and still banners I (Coughs.) 

Banners! Oh — I'm dumb. (Conghing.) 
Dieiriekstein. — A little late, my Lord I 

What will Prince Mettemich — ? These people herel 
The Duke.— 

Uoreover, thaf e as far as I have got. 

My dear professor. 

I've made good progress with my history? 
Dielrichttein.-~AnA yet no books came near you ! Tlut I'm 

sure of. I can't think how you leamt — I 
The Duke (mockingly, to Ob^aue). — 

Your course, ad tuufn, sir, Delphini, sir. 

Is finished, sir I 



[From " Lyrics of Ixiwly Life," Dodd, Mead & Co., New 
York. $1.25.] 

An angel, robed in spotless white. 
Bent down and kissed the sleeping night. 
Ni^t woke to blush : the sprite was gone; 
Ifen saw the blush and called it Dawn. 


Bill, the Lokil Editor 


[The abort stories of Eugene Field are rich matmal on 
which to draw for reading. The volume fn»n which this 
Btory is taken, "A Little Book of Profitable Tales," pub- 
lished by Charlra Scribner'e Sons, New York {price, $1.25), 
contains many that lend themselvee to recitation. " Bill, 
the Lokil Editor," and " The Little Taller Baby " are often 
cited by critics as the best atorica Field has written, and 
diBcriminating students of expression find in them choice 
material for successful public readings. In the same vol- 
nme, too, are " Doc Stebbins," a character sketch in broad 
farce, with a bit of tenderness at the close which ia charac- 
teriatic of the best things of Eugene Field ; " The Old Man," 
a child atory of melting pathoe ; " The First Christmas," a 
fairy story of the trees, one of which was to be hewn into 
the cross on which Christ was cmcified, and several otheta 
that arc easily adapted to recitation. — Thb Editobb.] 

wns alluz fond ut children 'nd birds 'nd 

Bl flowers. Ain't it kind o' curlout how- sometimes 
I we find a great, big, awkward man who Ioycb 
i secb things? Bill had the biggest feet in the 
I township, but 111 bet my wallet that he never 
' trod on a violet in all his life. Bill never took 
no slack from enny man that wuz sober, but the children 
made him play with 'em, and he'd set for hours a-watchin' 
the yaller-hammer buildin* her nest in the old cottonwood. 
Now T ain't defendin' Bill ; I'm jest tellin' the truth about 
him. Nothink I kin bbv one way or f other is goin' to make 
enoT difference now; Bill's dead 'nd buried, 'nd the folks 
is discuCHin' him 'nd wond'rin' whether his immortal soul ia 
all right. Sometimes T hev worried 'bout Bill, but I don't 
worrv 'bout him no more. IIv course Bill had his faults, 
— I never liked that drinkin' business uv hia'n, yet I allow 
that BiB got more good out* n likker, and likker got more 


die %gtaktt is 

good on^ Bill, tLan I ever see before or sence. It wam't 
Then the likker wnz in Bill that Bill wuz at his beet, but 
when he bed heea on to one ht his bats, 'nd had dnmk hJm- 
§elf sick, 'nd wnz comin' out nr the other end av the bat, 
then Bill wuz one uv the meekest 'nd properest critters yon 
ever se^i. An' potiy F Some qt the most beautiful potry 
I ever read wuz writ by Bill when he wuz recoverin' nim- 
eelf oufn one ut them bats. Seemed like it kind uy exalted 
■tf purified Bill's nachur to git drunk an' git over it Bill 
end drink more Ukker 'nd be sorrier for it than any other 
man in seven States. There never wnz a more penitent 
feller than he wuz when he wnz eoberin*. The trabble with 
Bill seemed to be that his conscience didn't come on vratch 
quite oFn enuff. 

Bill wuz the best lokil the p&per ever had. Nobody could 
beat Bill writin' obitoaries. mien old Mose Holbrook wnz 
dyin' the minister sez to him : " If r. Holbrook, you seem to 
be sorry that you're pasein' away to a better land? " 

" Wall, no ; not exactly that," sez Mose ; " but, to be frank 
with TOO, I hev jest one r^ret in connection with this 

"Whafe that?" asked the minister. 

" I can't help feelin* sonr," sez Mose, " that I ain't goin* 
to her the pleasure nv readin' what Bill Newton sez ^nt 
me in the paper. I know ifll be somtbin' uncommon fine ; 
I leant him two dollais a year ago last fall." 

The Higginses lost a darned good friend when Bill died. 
Bill wrote a pome iKmt their old dog Towze when he wuz 
run over by Watkins's hay wagon seven years ago. I'll bet 
that pome is in every scrap^ook in tiie country. You 
cooldn't read that pome wiuiout cryin', — ^why, that pome 
wad hev brought a dew out of tiie desert ut Sary. Old Tim 
llnbbard, the meanest man in fhe State, borrered a paper 
to read the pome, and he vmz so 'fected by it that he never 
boirered anuther paper as long as he lived. 

When our little Alice died I started out for Mr. Miller's ; 
he wuz the undertaker. The night wuz powerful dark, 'ud 
it wnz all the darker to me. Down near the brid^ I met 
Bill : he weaved round in the road, for he wuz in likker. 

** Hello, Mr. Baker," sea he, " whar be you goin' this time 
o* night?" 

" Bill," sez I, ** I'm goin' on the saddest errand nv my 


14 c&e Weaker 

" What d';e mean P " ses he, comin' up to me as straight 
as he cad. 

" Why, Bill," sez I, " our little girl — AUie, yon know — " 

I hoareed np so I cooldn't say nrnch more. And Bill 
didn't say notmnk at all ; he jest reached me hia hand, and 
he took my hand and seemed like in that grasp his heart 
spoke many words of comfort to mine. And nex* day he 
had a piece in the paper about our little girl. 

I know all about your f aehionahle potry and your famous 
potes, — Martha took " Gode/s " for a year. Folks that Utb 
m the cily can't write potry, — not the real, genuine article. 
To write potry, as I figure it, the heart must have some- 
thin' to feed on; you can't get that somethin' whar therv 
ain't trees, *nd grass, 'nd bir^, 'nd flowers. Bill loved these 
things, and he fed his heart on 'em, and thaf a why his 
potry wuz so mnch better than anybody else's. 

I ain't worryin' mnch about Bill now ; I take it that every- 
think is for the beat. When they told me that Bill died in 
a drunken fit, I felt that his end onghter have come soma 
other way, — ^he wnz too good a man for that But maybe, 
after all, it wuz ordered for the best. Jist imagine Bill 
a-etandin' np for jedgment ; jist imagine that poor, sorrow- 
ful, shiverin' critter waitin' for his turn to come. Pictur', 
if you can, how full uy penitence he is, 'nd how full ut 
potry, 'nd gentleness, 'nd misery. The Lord ain't a-goin* 
to be too bard on that poor wretch. Of course we can't 
comprehend divine mercy ; we only know that it is full of 
compassion. Like as not the little ones — my Allie with the 
rest— will mn to him when they see him in his trubble, 'nd 
will hold his tremblin' hands 'nd twine their arms about 
him. and plead, with him. for compassion. 

What would Tou — what would I — say, if we wuz settin' in 
jedgment then r 

Why, we'd jeet kind nv breeh the moisture from our eyes 
■nd say: " Mister Recordtn' Angel, you may noUy pros thii 
ease *nd perseed with the docket" 


Cte ^eafcn is 

The Arena Scene from 
"Quo Vadis?" 



T^^^HB Bonum Empire in the first century presents 
I the most revolting picture of mankind to be 
I found in the pages of history. Society founded 
1 on superior force, on the most bai-barous 
I cruelty, on crime and mad profligacy, was cor- 
' rupt beyond the power of words to describe. 
Rome ruled the world, but was also its nicer, and the hor- 
rible monster, Nero, guilty of all hideous and revolting 
crimes, seems a fit monardi for such a people. 

A few years ago appeared " Quo Vadis ? " the story from 
which this selection is made. The book attained so great 
a popularity, that it was translated into almost every tongue. 
In spite of its many faults, it riveted the attention, and, 
althouf^ it shocked the senaibUitiea, when its great purpose 
was understood it melted the heart. 

The author drew a startlingly vivid and horrible picture 
of humanity at this lowest stage, and in confiiet with it ha 
showed us uie Christ spirit. 

The extract is the story of how the young Yiuicius, a 
patrician, a soldier, a courtier of Nero, through the labyrinth 
of foul sin, of self-worship and self-indulgence, wi& lova 
for his guide, found his way home to the feet of Him who 
commanded, " Be ye pure even as I am pure." 

It is the love story of Viniciua and the Princess Lygia, 
a convert to Christ. The girl's happy and innocent life 
was rudely disturbed by a summons to the court of the 
profligate emperor. Arrived there, she found that Nero 
bad given her to Vinicius, who had fallen passionatoly in 
love with her; but on the way to Vinicius* honee she was 
rescued by the giant Ursus, one of her devoted attendants 
and a member of her own faith. They escaped in safety to 
the Christians, who were livmg in hiding in the city. 

The imperious nature of the youthful soldier for the first 
time in his life met resistance. He was so transported with 


16 die speaker 

rage and diBappointmeDt that he ordered the alaves from 
viiom Lygia had escaped to be flogged to death, while be 
set OQt to lind the girl who had dared to thwart his deaire. 
His egotism was so great that he would have seen the 
citr and the whole world sunk in ruins rather than fail 
of his purpose. For daja and days his search was unceasing, 
and at last he found Lygia, but was severely woundi>d 
1:^ the giant Uraua in making a second attempt to carry 
her off. Finding himself helpless in the Christuns' hands, 
he expected nothing but death ; but instead be was carefully 
and tenderly nursed back to health. Waking from his 
delirinm, he found at his bedside Lygia — ^Lygia, whom he 
had most iojared, watching alone, wlule the otbers bad gone 
to rest. Gradually in bis pagan bead the idea b^an to 
hatch with difScal^ that at me side of naked beauty, con- 
fident and proud of Greek and Boman symmetry, there was 
another in the world, new, immensely pure, in which a soul 
leaided. As the days went by, Yiniciua was thrilled to the 
TNj depths of his soul by the consciousness that Lygia was 
learning to lore him. With that revelation came tide cer- 
tain conviction that bis religion wonld forever make an 
inaeparable barrier between them. Then he hated Chris- 
tianity with all the powers of his soul, yet he conld not but 
acknowledge that it had adorned Lygia with tbat excep- 
tional, unexplained beauty, which was producing in his 
heart besides love, respect; besides desire, homage. Yet, 
when he thought of accepting the religion of the Xazarene, 
all the Boman in him rose up in revolt against the idea. 
He knew that if he were to accept that teaching he wonld 
have to throw, as on a burning pile, all his thoughts, ideas, 
ambitions, habits of life, his very nature up to that mo- 
ment, bum them into ashes and fill himself with an entirely 
new life, and from his soul he cried that it was impossible; 
it was impossible! 

Before Vinicius bad entirely recovered Nero commanded 
bis presence at Antium, whither the court was going for 
the not summer month^i. Nero was ambitious to write an 
immortal epic poem which should rival the " Odyssey," and 
in order that he might describe realistically a burning city, 
gave a secret command while be was in Antitun that Bome 
should be set on fire. 

One evenini;, when the court was assembled to hear 'Sen 
recite some of his poetry, a slave appeared. 


die speaker i? 

"Pardon, Divine tmperator, Borne is barninftl The 
whole dtj is a sea of flames I" A moment of horrified 
nlenee followed, broken by the ciy of ViuiciuB. He mahed 
forth, and, springing on bis horse, dashed into the deep 
night. A horseman, rushing also like a whirlwind, but in 
the opposite direction, toward Antium, shouted as he 
raced past : " Eome is perishing I " To the ears of Vinicius 
came only one more expression : " Gods 1 " The rest wiis 
drowned by the thunder of hoofs. But the expresaion 
sobered hun. " Gods I " He raised his head suddenly, and, 
stretching his arms toward the sky filled with stars, began 
t<> pray. 

" Not to yon, whose temples are burning, do I call, but 
to Thee. Thou Thyself haat suffered. Thou alone hast 
understood people's pain. If Thou art what Peter and 
Paul declare, save Lygia. Seek her in the burning; save lier 
and I will give Thee my blood I " 

Before he had reached the top of the mountain he felt 
the wind on his face, and with it the odor of smoke came 
to his nostrils. He touched the summit at last, and then 
a terrible sight struck his eyes. The whole lower region 
was covered with smoke, but beyond this gray, ghastly pl^in 
the city was burning on the hills. The conflagration lind 
not the form of a pillar, but of a long belt, shaped like the 

Vinicius' horse, choking with the smoke, became unman- 
ageable. He sprang to the earth and rushed f trward on 
foot The tunic began to smolder on him in places; breath 
failed his lungs ; strength failed his bones ; he fell I Two 
men, with gourds full of water, ran to him and bore him 
away. When he regained consciousness he found himself 
in a spacious cave, lighted with torches and tapers. He Paw 
a throng of people kneeling, and over him bent the tender, 
beautiful face of bia soul'a beloved. 

Lygia was indeed safe from the burning, but before Ihe 
first thrill of relief was over an infinitely more horrible 
danger threatened her. The people were in wrath, and 
threatened violence to Nero and his court, for it was pop- 
ularly believed that the city had been set on fire at the 
emperor'a instigation. The coward, Nero, was startled and 
thoroughly alarmed, and welcomed gladly the suggestion 
that the calamity should be blamed on the Christians, who 
were viewed with great suspicion by the common people. 


18 ciie %|iealiet 

and obliged even th&a to live in hiding. In order to clear 
bimself and to divert the people's minds, he instituted at 
once against the Christiana the most horrible persecutionB 
Qiat have ever stained man's historj. For days and days 
the people came in countless numbers to witness the toi^ 
turee of the innocent rictims; but at last they grew weary 
of blood-spilling. Then it was given out mat Nero had 
arranged a climax for the last of tne Christians who were to 
die at an evening spectacle in a brilliantly-lighted amphi- 
theater. Chief interest both of the Augustinians and the 
people centered in Lygia and Yinicius, for the story of 
their love was now generally known, and everybody felt 
that Nero was intendu^ to make a tragedy for himself oat 
of the suffering of Vinicina. 

At last the evening arrived. The sight was in truth 
magnificent. All that was powerful, brilliant and wealthy 
in Bome was there. The lower seats were crowded with 
togas as white as snow. In a gilded padium aat Nero, wear- 
ing a diamond collar and a golden crown upon his head. 
Every eye was turned with strained gaze to the place where 
the unfortunate lover was sitting. He was exceedingly 
pale, and his forehead was covered with drops of sweat. To 
his tortured mind came the thought that faith of itself 
would spare Lygia. Peter had said that faith would move 
the earth to its foundations. He crushed doubt in hinuelf, 
compressed his whole being into the sentence, " I believe," 
and he looked for a miracle. 

The prefect of the citf waved a red handkerchief, and 
out of ihe dark gully into the brilliantly-lighted arena came 
Ursue. In Rome there was no lack of gladiators, larger by 
far than the common measure of man ; but Soman eyes had 
never seen the like of Ursus. The people gazed with the de- 
light of experts at his mighty limbs, as large as tree trunks; 
at his breast, as large as two shields joined together, and his 
arms of a Hercules. He was unarmed, and ^d determined 
to die as became a follower of the Lamb, peacefully and 
patiently. Meanwhile he wished to pray once more to the 
Saviour. So he knelt on the arena, joined his hands nnd 
raised his eyes toward the stars. This act displeased the 
crowd. They had had enough of those Christians, who died 
like sheep. They understood that if the giant would not 
defend himself, the spectacle would be a failure. Hers 
and there hisses were heard. Some b^an to cry for scour^ 


Cbe ^eabei i9 

fn, whose office it was to laelt combatants unwilling to 
fight But soon all bad grown silent, for no one knew what 
was waiting for the giant, nor whether he wonld not defend 
himself when he met death eye to eye. 

In fact, they had not long to wait Snddenly the shrill 
Boond of brazen trumpets was heard, and at that nignal 
into the arena rushed, amid the shouts of the beast-keepers, 
an enormous German aarocbs, bearing on his bead the 
naked body of a woman. 

ViniciuB spiang to his feet 

"Lygla! Oh, . . . I believe 1 I believe 1 Oh, Christ, a 
miracle! a miracle 1" And he did not even know tha.t 
Petronius had covered hie head at that moment with a toga. 
He did not look ; he did not see. The feeling of some awful 
emptiness possessed him. In his head there remained not 
a tnought His lips merely repeated as if in madness, " I 
believe! I believe! I believe!" 

This time the amphitheater was silent, for in the arena 
something uncommon had happened. That giant, obedient 
and ready to die, when he saw his qneen on the horns of 
the wild l>east, sprang up, as if touched by living fire, and, 
bending forward, he ran at the raging animal. 

From all breasts a sudden cir of amazement was heard, 
as the giant fell on the raging bull, and seized him by the 
horns. And then came deep silence. All breasts ceased to 
breathe. In the amphitheater a fly might be heard on the 
wing. People could not believe their own eyes. Since 
Home was Rome no one bad ever seen such a spectacle. 
The man's feet sank in the sand to bis ankle ; his back was 
bent like a bow; his head was bidden between his shoulders; 
on his arms the muscles came ont so that ibe skin almost 
burst from their pressure; but be bad stopped the bull in 
his tracks. The man and the bull remained so still that the 
spectators thought themselves looking at a group hewn in 
stone. But in tiat apparent repose thpre was a tremendous 
eiertion of two struggling forces. The bull's feet, as well 
as the man's, sank in the sand, and the dark, shaggy body 
was curved bo that it seemed a gigantic ball. Which of the 
two would fail first? Which would fall first? 

Meanwhile a dull roar resembling a groan was heard 
from the arena, after which a brief shout was wrested from 
every breast, and again there was silence. Duller and 
duller, hoarser and hoarser, more and more painful gieif 

:y Google 

so Cbe ftpeabec 

the groan of the boll as it mingled with the whistling 
breaSi from the breast of the giant. The head of the beast 
began to turn in the iron hands of the barbarian, and from 
his jaws crept' forth a long, foaming tongue. A moment 
more and to the ears of the spectators sitting nearer came, 
as it were, the crack of breaking bonee ; then the beast rolled 
on the earth, dead. 

The giant removed in a twinkling the ropes that bound 
the maiden to the horns of Ihe bull. His face was veir 
pale; he stood as if only half conscious; then he raised bis 
eyes and looked at the spectators. 

The amphitheater had gone wild. Tlie walls of the 
building were trembling from the roar of tens of thonsands 
of people. 

Everywhere were heard cries for mercy, passionate and 
persistent, which soon turned into one unbroken thunder. 

The giant understood that they were asking for his life 
and liberty, but his thoughts were not for himself. He 
raised the unconscious maiden in his arms, and, going to 
Nero's padium, held her up and looked up imploringly. 

Vinicius sprang over tne barrier which separated the 
lower seats from the arena, and, running to Lygia, corered 
her with bis toga. 

Then he tore apart the tunic on his breast, laid bare the 
scars left by wounds received in the Armenian war, and 
stretched out hia hands to the multitude. 

At this the enthusiasm passed everything ever seen in 
a circus before. Voices choking with tears began to de- 
mand mercy. Yet Nero halted and hesitated. He would 
have preferred to see the giant and the maiden rent by the 
horns of the bull. 

Nero was alarmed. He understood that to oppose longer 
was simply dangerous. A disturbance begun in the circus 
might seize the whole city. He looked once more, and, 
seeing everywhere frowning brows, excited faces and eyes 
fixed on him, he slowly raised hia hand and gave the sign 
for mercy. 

Then a thunder of applause broke from the highest seats 
to the lowest. But Vinicina heard it not. He dropped on 
his knees in the arena, stretched his hands toward heaven 
and cried :" I believe I Oh, Christ! I believe 1 I believe I" 


€\tt %peabec SI 

The Cushville Hop 


[Man; of Bqq King's poems read well. " Jane Jonei^'' 
"Bentwi Harbor, Mich.," and Beveral others are videly 
popolar. The poem printed below is from "Ben EiBg'e 
Ytxae," pnbliahed by Forbes & Co., Chicago. $1.00.] 

I'se zwine down to the CushTiUe hop 

An' oar ain' no niggaha gwine ter make me stop; 

Uissua Kwine to de^ me all up in whit^ 

So watw de step dat I'se gettin' in ter-i^ght 

Um-hm, my honey, turn me loose; 

Um-hm, my honey, torn me loose ; 

TJm-hm, my hon^, watch me shine 

When m&h foot am a-shakin' in de ole coonjine. 

No black niggahs come toolin' round me; 

I'se jes' to look at, anyone can see ; 

I'se jes' a omiment, an' I mne' 'fess, 

No niggah pnt 'is ahm ronn' mah snow-white drees. 

Um-hm, niggah, keep away, understand? 

Um-hm, ni^ah, look out fo' yo' hand ; 

I'se jes* ter gaze at, I mna* 'fess. 

So don't pnt yo' ahm roun' mah snow white dress. 

Bring out de banjo, plnnk-plank-pling ; 
Watdi de motion of mah step an' mah awing; 
Don't to' peetah me or make me stop 
When I git in motion at de Cushrille hop. 
Um-hm, niggah, keep away, keep away I 
Um-hm, niggah, not ter-day ! 
Keep away from me kase I done kain't tiap ; 
I'ae jes caogbt mah motion fo* de CoBhTille hop. 


Sonny's Christenin' 


[TlieTe IB perhaps qo greater classic of child life thin 
Ituth McEneiy Stuarfs " Sonny." The humor ia ner^ 
forced, the character ia never OTerdravn. Ia this book ia 
a naogh^ bo; who grows to be a oaefnl man, a thing qaita 
impossible with the naughty boja of most books. Sons; ia 
the only child of an old conple, who, the neighbors saj^, 
spend their days spoiling him. He tries many teachers, 
none of whom makes progress with him, until at last one 
teacher, who treats the boy as "a condition, not theory." 
There is not a chapter in this book that does not lend itself 
to recitation. No more charming Christmas story haa been 
written in recent years than the opening chapter, called 
"A ChristmaB Oaest" Here are mingled humor, tender- 
ness, sentiment, philosophy and character drawing. Though 
these qualities pervade every page, the hnmor of the book 
is no doubt at its beat in " The Boy " and " Sonny's Di- 
ploma." Pablished by the Century Company, New York. 
11.00.— The Editors.] 


AS, sir, wife an' me, we've turned 'Piscopala — all 
on account o' Sonny. He seemed to prefer that 
religion, an' of co'se we wouldn't have the fam- 
ily divided, ao we're a-goin' to be ez good 'Pisco- 
pals ez we can. 

I reckon ifll come a little bit awkward at 

first Seem like I never will git so thet I can sass back in 
church 'thout feelin' sort o* impident— bnt I reckon I'll 
chirp np an' come to it, in time. 

I never was much of a hand to sound the ameus, even 
in our own Methodist meetin's. 

Sir? How old is he? Oh, Sonny's purty nigh six— but 
he showed a pref ence for the 'Piscopal Church long tof he 
could talk. 


C&e %peaktt ^3 

When he wasn't no mo' 'n three year old we commenced 
i-takin' him round to church wherever they held meetin'e, 
— ^'Piscopals, Methodists or Preebyterians, — bo's he could 
Bee an* hear for hisaelf. I ca'yed him to baptizin' over to 
Chinquepin Creek, once't, when he was three. I thought I'd 
let bim aee it done, an' maybe it might make a good impree- 
eioB ; but no, air 1 The Baptists didn't snit him ! Cried ever' 
time one was doueed, an' I had to fetch him away ! In oar 
Methodist meetin's he seemed to git worked up an' pro- 
voked, some way. An' the Presbyterians, he didn't take no 
stock in them at all. EicoUect, one Sunday the preacher, 
be preached a mighty powerful disco'se on the doctrine o' 
lost infanta not 'lected to salvation — an' Sonny ? Why, he 
slep' right thoo it 

The first any way lively interest he ever seemed to take 
in religious services was at the 'Piacopals, Easter Sunday. 
When he seen the lilies an' the candlee, he thess clapped his 
little hands, an' time the folks commenced answerin' back 
he was tickled all but to death, an' started answerin' hisself 
— on'y, of co'se he'd answer sort o' hit an' miss. 

He never had showed no disposition to be christened, an' 
ever sence the doctor tried to vaccinate him he seemed to 

S't the notion that chrisfnin' an' vaccination was mo' or 
38 the same thing; an' sense that time he's been mo* op- 
posed to it than ever. 

Sir ? Oh no, sir. He didn't vaccinate him ; he thess tried 
to do it; but Sonny, he wouldn't begin to allow it He 
never seemed to want baptism, though he had heard us dis- 
cuss all hie life both it an' vaccination ez the two ordeels to 
be gone thoo with some time. 

But last week he had been playin' out o' doors bare- 
feeted, thess same ez he always does, an' he tramped on a 
pine splinter some way. Of co'se, pine, ifs the safe-test 
splinter a person can run into a foot, on account of its 
carryin' its own turpentine in with it to heal up things; but 
any splinter thet dast to push itself up into a little pink 
foot is a messenger of trouble, an' we know it An' eo, 
when we see this one, we tried ever' way to coax him to let 
UB take it out, but he wouldn't, of co'se. He never wilt, an' 
somehow the Lord seems to give 'em ambition to work their 
own way out mos' gen'ally. 

But, sir, this splinter didn't seem to have no energy in 
it It these lodged there, an' his little foot it commenced 


84 Ci)e %ptaktt 

to swell, an' it swole, an' swole, tell his little toes stack ont 
eo thet the little pig thet went to market looked like ez ef 
it wasn't on speuun' terms with the little pig thet stayed 
home, an' wife an' me we watched it, an' I reckon she prayed 
over it conaiderTjte, an' I read a extry psalm at night 
befo' I went to bed, all on account o' that little foot. An' 
night befo' las' it was lookin' mighty angry an' swole, an' 
he had limped an' " ouched I " consider'ble all day, an' he 
was mi^^ fretful bed-time. So, after he went to sleep, 
wife she come out on the po'ch where I was eettin', and she 
Bays to me, says she, her face all drawed up an' workin', says 
she : " Honey," says she, " I reckon we better sen' for him 
an' have it did." Thess so, she said it *' Sen* for who, 
wife ? " says I, " an' have what did ? " ** Why, sen' for him, 
the 'Piscopal preacher,' says she, "an' have Sonny chris- 
tened. Them little toes o' hisn is ez red ez cherry toma- 
toes. They burnt my lips thess now like a coal o' fire, an* 
— an' lockjaw is goin' roun' turT)le. 

" Seems to me," says she, " when he started to git sleepy, 
" he didn't gape ez wide ez he gen'ly does — an' I'm 'feered 
he's a-gittin°it now." An', sir, with that, she thess gatliered 
up her apron an' inopped her face in it an' give way. An' 
ez for me, I didn't seem to have no mo* backbone down my 
spinal column ^n a feather bolster has, I was that weak. 

It was mos' nine o'clock then, an' a dark night, an' 
rainin', hut I never said a word — they wasn't no room round 
the edges o' the lump in my throat for words to come out 
et they'd 'a' been one surgin' up there to say, which they 
wasn't — but I thess went out an' saddled my horse an' I rid 
into town, 

y- I sent the doctor out an' rid on for the minister. His wife 
'said he was away, but would come nsit morning. 

Well, sir, when I got home that night I found wife a heap 
cheerfuUer. The doctor had given Sonny a big apple to eat 
an' pronounced him free from oil symptoms o' lockjaw. But 
when I come the little feller had crawled 'way back under 
the bed an' lay there, eatin' his apple, an' they couldn't git 
him out Soon ez the doctor had teched a poultice to his 
foot he had woke up an' put a stop to it, an' then he had 
went off by hiseelf where nothin' couldn't pester him, to 
enjoy his apple in peace. An' we never got him out tell he 
beared us tellin' the doctor good-night. 

I tried evei* way to git him out — even took up a coal o' 


fin an' poked it onder at him ; but he theas laughed at that 
an' belt bis apple again' it au' made it sizz. Well, sir, be 
seemed so tickled thet I belt that coal o' fire for him tell 
be cooked a good big spot on one side o' the apple, an' et it, 
an' then, when I tm)k it out, he called for another, but I 
didn't gire it to bim. I don't see no use in OTer-indulgin* 
a child. 

We never bad bo much ez considered it neceesary tbet 
little children should be christened to have 'em saved, bat 
when things got on the ticklish edge, like they was then, 
why, we felt tbet the ssfest aide ia the wise side, an' of 
co'ee, we want Sonny to have the best of everything. So, 
we was mighty thankful when we see the rector comin'. 
But, sir, when I went out to open the gate for him, what on 
top o' this round hemisphere do you reckon Sonny done? 
Wby, sir, be tbess took one look at the gate, an' tb^ be out 
an' run bard ez he could — limped acrost the yard theea 
like a flash o' zig^^ag ligbtnin' — an' 'fore anybody could 
stop him be had dumb to the tip-top o' the butter-bean 
arbor — clumb it tbess like a cat — an* there be set a-swingin' 
his feet under bim, an' laoghin', tbe rain tbess a-streakin' 
his hair all over bis face. 

/That bean arbor is a favorite place for bim to escape to, 
'cause if a too high to reach, an' it ain't strong eno^h to 
bear no grown-up person's weight. 

Well, sir, the rector, he come in an' opened bis ralise an* 
'rayed hisself in bia robes an' opened bis book, an', while 
he was tnmin' tbe leaves, be faced 'round an', aays h^ 
lookin' at me direc*, says he : 

"Let the child be brought forward for baptism," says 
he, thesB tbat-a-way. Well, sir, I looked at wife, an* wir^ 
she looked at me, an' then we both tbess looked out at tbe 
butter-bean arbor. 

Sector, he's a mighty good, Knd-hearted man, git down 
to the man inside Oie preacher, an' when he see tbess how 
things stood, why, he come 'round friendly, an* he went ont 
on tbe po'ch an' united with us in tryin' to help coax Sonny 
down. But, no, sir, stid o' him comin* down. Sonny started 
orderin' tbe rest of ns christened tbesa the way be done 
about the vaccination. But, of co'se, we bad been baptised 
befo', an' we nacbelly belt out agin* that for some time. 
But di'rec^y rector, he seemed to have a sudden idee, an*, 
aays he, facln' 'ronnd, church-like, to wife an* me, says he; 


S6 CDe ^eakec 

" Have 700 both been baptised accordio' to the rites o' tha 
chuidi?" An' me, thlnkin', of co'se, he meant the 'Pisco- 
pal Church, says:'" No, sir," says I, tJiesa so. And then we 
see that the way was open for us to be did over ^ia. ef we 
wanted to. So, sir, wife an' me was took into the church, 
then an' there. 

Then he commenced callin* for Dicey, an' the dog, an' the 
cat, to be did, same ez he done befo'; but, of co'se, tbey's 
some liberties thet even a innocent child can't talce wilh the 
waters 0' baptism, an' the rector he got sort o' wo'e-out, an' 
disgusted, an' 'lowed thet, less'n we could get the child ready 
for baptism, he'd haf to go home. 

So, says I, turnitt' 'round an' facin' him square, says I: 
"Bector," says I, "why not baptize him where he is? I 
mean it The waters o' heaven are descendin' upon him 
where he sets, an' seems to me ef he's favo'bly situated for 
anything it is for baptism." Says I: "Parson," says I, 
speakin' thess ez ca'm ez I am this minute — " Parson," says 
I, " his little foot is mighU swole, an' so'e, an' that splinter 
— thess s'poee he was to take the lockjaw an' die — don't you 
reckon you might do it where he sets — ^from where yoa 

Wife, she was cryin' by this time, an' parson, he claired 
his th'oat, an' coughed, an' then he commenced walkin' np 
an' down, an' treckly he stopped, an' says he, speakin' 
mighty reverential an' serious : 

" Ijookin' at this case speritually, an* as a minister o' the 
gospel," says he, "it seems, to me thet the question ain't 
so much a question of doin' ez it is a question of with- 

Sonny didn't rightly sense the situation tell it come to 
the part where it says : " Name this child," an', of co'se, I 
called out to Sonny to name hUsdf, which it had always 
been our intention to let him do. 

" Name yo'self, right quick, like a good boy," says I. Of 
co'se Sonny had all his life heered me say that I was Deu- 
teronomy Jones. Senior, an' thet I hoped some day when he 
got chri-tened he'd be the jtinior. He knowed that by 
heart, an' would agree to it or dispute it, 'cordin' to how the 
notion took him, an' I sort o* calculated thet he'd out with 
it now. But, no, sir ! Not a word ! He thess sot up on thet 
beau -arbor an' grinned. 

An' so, feelin' put to it, with the services suspended over 


Cbe ftpeokec it 

mj head, I spoke up, an' I says : " Parson," aays I, " I reckon 
ef be was to speak his little heart, he'd say Deuteronomy 
Jones, Jnnior.'' An' with that what does Sonny do bnt 
Gonterdic* me flat 1 " No, not Junior 1 I want to be named 
Deuteronomy Jones, Senior 1 " says he, thess so. 

" Parson," says I, " he has spoke his heart's desire. He 
has named hisself after me entire — Deuteronomy Jones, 

An' so it is writ in the family record colume in the big 
Bible, though I spelt his Senior with a little 8, an' writ him 
down ez the only son of the Senior with the big S, which it 
seems to me fixes it about right for the time bein'. An' 
then Sonny, seein' it was all over, lie come down. 

Well, after I had reasoned with him severe that-a-way a 
while, he says, says he, these ez sweet an' mild, says he, 
" Daddy, ner" time y* all gits christened, I'll come down an' 
be christeDed right— like a good boy." 

Then, of eo'se, I explain^ to him thet it couldn't never 
be did no mo', 'canse it had been did, an' did 'Piscopal, 
which is secure. An' then, what you reckon the little feller 
said F Says he, " Yes, daddy, but s'poeiu' nune don't take. 
How "bout that?'* 


28 ctt ^eaitn 

How She Went into Business 

From the Chronicles of Aiuat AUneira A nn. 

[It is generally conceded that, after the Uncle Bemoa 
Btories, the beat that Joel Chandler Harris has given ub 
are those of Aunt Minerra Ann, in a book of that name, 
published by Cbarlee Scribner's Sons, New York (price 

This old manunjr tells the stories of the var and recoD- 
straction days as Uncle Bemus presents the folk stories of 
the negro race. The character is admirably drawn, and 
there is the atmosphere of the times in the stones she 
tells. " When Jess Went a-Fiddlin'," " An Evening with 
the ' Ku-Klux,' " and especially " How She Joined the Leg- 
islature," in this same volume, are quite as full of humor, 
and are certainly as choice stories aa " How She Went into 
Business," printed below. — The Editors.] 

T^^^^^aiii't money dat mokes de quali^; hits dat ar 
kinder breedin' whafll make de finest folka 
stop an' shake ban's wid a nigger des ez quick 
ez dey would wid de King er Eooehy — ef dey 
got any king dar. Long 'for" de tannoil, eoh, 
endnrin' de farm in' days, twuz des dat-a-way. 
When he wnz at Ms richest, Maree Tiunlin never did pass a 
nigger on de road, widout stoppin' an' axin' who he blong 
ter, an* what he name, an* how he gittin' on. I knew, snh, 
I done hear my color talk, an' dey talks it down to dis ve'y 
day, Dey ain't been a time in dat man's life when he ain't 
think mo' er somebody else dan what he think er hisse'f. 
Dafs what T call de quality, suh. 

" I've heard that the Major has something of a temper," 
I said. 

Temper! (holding up her hands). Temper. I hear you 
sayl Well, snh, dat ain't no name fer it. I done seed bad 
men, but Marse Tumlin is de wuss man when he git his 


dander op dat I yever come 'croea in all my bom days. De 
fnst time I seen 'im mad, suh, voz right after de folks got 
back from figbtin' and battUn'. It makes me open my eyes. 
I been livin' wid 'im all dem years, an' I never is got to know 
bov servigerous dat man is. 

An de funny part wuz, soh, dat be got mad "bont a ole 
nigger 'oman. Yasser, all Tjout a ole nigger 'oman. In 
dem times we all had to scuffle 'round right smart fer to 
git Yittles ter eat, let 'lone cloze ter Var. Long 'bout that 
time, court week wuz comin' on, de fust court week we bad 
seuce de folks come home from battlin'. Dey wuz b great 
miration 'bout it, bekaze dey say ev'body gwine ter come an' 
see de lawyers rastle. 

Well, sub, it comee 'cross my mind dat if I kin bake some 
ginger-cakes an' make some chicken-pies, may be I kin pick 
up a little money. De dime and thrip species had alt done 
gone, but dey wus oodles er shin'plaaters floatin' 'roun' ef 
you had snmp'n fer ter git nm wid. I dunner whar in de 
world we got 'nuff flour an' 'lasses fer ter make de cakes. I 
know I bad one chicken, an' Hamp he went off one night 
an' borried two mo'. I un't ax 'im whar he bony um, soh, 
bekaze 'twac't none er my business. 

Well, sub, I make de ginger-cakes de week 'fo* court, 
bekaze it he'ps a ginger-cake ef you bake 'im an* den shet 
'im up in a tight box whar he kin sweat, an' Monday we set 
in ter bake de pies. I had as many cakes ez I kin tote wid- 
out gettin* tired, an' I ain't no baby when it comes ter 
totin* cakes. Well, suh, I been livin' a mightr long time, 
but I ain't never see folks wid snch a cravin fer ginger^ 

Frum de word go dej wuz greedy fer 'em. 

I 'speck you know right Vhar I eat at, suh; 'twuz dar by 
dat big chaney-tree front er Sanford's sto'. Hit sbo wuz 
a midity tree. De win' done blowed op an' blewed it down, 
bnt de stump atan' in dar sproutin' right now. Well, suh, 
right under the shadder er dat tree, on de outer aidge er de 
sidewalk, I tuck my stan'. an' I ain't been dar long 'fo* de 
folks 'gun ter swa'm atter my cakes, an* den, when Hamp 
bring de pies — ^well 1 hit look like dey fair dribble at de 

I sol' all de pies 'cepin' one, an' ef I'd 'a* sol' dat nn, I 
don't speck defA 'a' been any trouble ; bat yon know what 
k fool a nigger kin be, sab, spechuslly a nigger 'oman. I 


so ctie ftpeaitet 

tuck B notion in my mind, dat I done so poir'ful well, I'd 
save dat pie fer Maree Tomlin an' Miss Vallie. So ev'ry 
time Bomebody come 'long an' want ter buy de pie, I'd up 
an' Bay it done sold. 

Bimeby, who shonld come lone but dat ar Salem Birch I 
He dead now, but I 'speck you done hear talk un 'im, be- 
kaze he msk' matters migb^ hot in deze parts twel — twel 
— well, Buh, twell he 'gun to hone atter dot pie, ez you 
may say. 

Well, enh, dar sot de pie, an* dar wuz de ginger-cakes, 
ol' timers, big ter look at, but light ter handle. Eve'ybody 
want de pie, but my min' done made up. Some bought cake 
Btidder de pie, an' some des wipe der mouf an' go on. But 
bimeby, here comes Salem Birch, bIx feet high, an' his hat 
sot on de Bide his head like he done bought de whole town. 
I know'd de minnit I laid ^ee on 'im dat he had dram in 
'im, an' dat he wuz up ter some devilment Him an' his 
bre*r Bill-Tom, suh, had terrified de whole county. Dey 
wuz constant a-fightin', an' ef dey couldn't get nobody else 
ter fight, dey'd fight 'mongst deyse'f. Tassirl dem ar 
Birches had done irtiip der own daddy. He atop right front 
er me, Buh, an' time his eye fell on me he sang out: 

"\VhoopeeI Ef here ain't ol' Minerry Ann! Wid pies! 
An' cakes 1 Come on, boys I Have some piee 1 An' cakes ! " 

Well, Buh, you mought er heer'd 'im a mile. He say, 
"How much you take fer yo' chicken-pie?" I 'low, "Hit 
done sol', suh," He say, " I'll gi' you a quarter fer dat pie," 
I 'low, " De pie done sol', Buh',' 

He say, "Who bought dat pie?" I low, "Marse Tum- 
lin Purdue." He sorter draVd hisse'f up, he did, an' say, 
" Ain't I des ez good ez Tumlin Purdue? " I 'low, " I ain't 
know nothin' to de contrary, Buh, but ef yon is, you got 
ter be a monstrous good man," 

He say, "I is! I'm de bes' man in de county." I 'low, 
" Dat may be, Buh ; I ain't 'sputin' it.' By dat time I 'gun 
to feel de '01' Boy kinder ranklin' in my gizzard. He say, 
" Why can't I have dat pie ? " I 'low, " Bekaze de pie done 
sol', suh." He say, " Fer cash ? " 

I 'low, " N"o, snh ; but Marse Tnmlin's word is lots het- 
ter'n some folks* money I " Wid dat he flung down a shiu- 
plaflter rmarier, an' retch fer de pie. By de time he grabbed 
it, I grabbed it. an' he pulled, an I pulled, I dunner whed- 
der 'twuz de strenk in me or de dram in *im, but in de 


Clie Weaker si 

pnllin', de box what de pie voz on tumt over, au' mj cheer 
tunit over, an' down come Salem Birch right spang on top 
er me. 

I tell Ton now, suh, dis ekeer'd me. 'Twnz mo' dan I 
bareaia fer. Bight at de minnit I had de idee dat de man 
had jumped on me an' wuz gwine ter kill me. So I des give 
one sqnail: 

" Marse Tamlin I Son ber^ Maree Tomlin 1 He killia' 
me! Oh, Maree Tomlin I" 

Well, Boh, dey tell me dat squall wuz so inlmmfln it made 
de country hoseee break loose fum de racks. One white 
lady at de tavern hear it, an' she had to be put ter bed. 
Bless yore soul, honey I Don't nerer say you hear anybody 
blate twel yon hear ol' Minervy Ann, — an' de Lord knows 
I hope you won't nerer hear me. 

Dey ain't no use talkin', auh, hit 'larmed de town. Salem 
Birch got up des ez quick ez he could, an' I wuz up dea ez 
quick ez he wuz, an' by dat my temper done run my skeer 
off, an' I dez blazed out at him. What I say I'll never tell 
you, bekaze I wuz so mad I ain't never bear myse'f talk. 
Some say I call 'im dis, some say I call 'im dat, but what- 
somever 'hmz, hit wa'n't no nice name — I kin promise you 
dat Twuz 'nuil ter rise his dander, an' he draw'd back his 
arm fer ter hit me, but des 'bout dat time Marse Tumlin 
shoved 'im back. Marse Tumlin low, "Ton dirty dog! 
You sneakin', nasty houn'! is dis de way you does yo' 

Well, Buh, dis kinder skeer me ag'in, kaze I hear talk dat 
Salem Birch went Iwut wid dirks an' pistols on 'im, ready 
fer ter use um. He look at Marse Tumlin, an' his face got 
whiter an' whiter, an' he draw'd his breff deep an' long. 

Marse Tumlin 'low, *'Tou see dat nigger 'oman? Well, 
ef she woz blacker dan de hinges er hell "—he say dcm 
ve'y words, suh, — "ef she wuz blacker dan de hinges er 
hell, she'd be whiter dan you an' all yo' thievin' gang.* An' 
den, suh, — I 'clar I'm most 'shame ter tell you — Marse 
TumlJD rise up on his tip-toes an' spit in de man's face. 
Yascer ! Eight spang in his face. Ton may well look 'ston- 
ished, suh. But ti you'd 'a' seed de way Marse Tumlin 
looked you'd know why Salem Birch ain't raise his hand, 
'cepin' ter wipe his face. Ef dey ever wuz blood an' killin' 
in anybody's eyes, hit wuz in Marse Tumlin right dat 
minnit. He stan' dar while you kin count ten, an°den he 


32 CI)e %peakn 

Bnap hifl thnmb an' torn on Iub heel, an' dat er Salem Birch 
tuck 'n' walk 'cross de pnblic sqnar* an* eat down on de 
conit honse steps, an' dar he sot, auh, wid his head 'twiit 
his han's fer I dunner how long. 

Well, Buh, I know in reason dat de een er dat business 
ain't come. Yon know how oar white folks is; yon kin 
spit in one man's face, an' he not take it np, but some er 
his kinnery er his friends sho' take it up. So I say ter 
myse'f, " Look here, nigger 'oman, you better keep you 
mouf shet an' bofe eyes open, kaze dey gwine ter be hot 
times in deze diggin's." 

When I git thoo breahin' an' cleamn' up, I look up, I did, 
an' dar wuz Marse Bolivar Blasengame w^in' up an' down 
right close at me. So I 'low, " Won't you have a. ginger- 
cake, Uarse Bolivar? I'd offer you de pie, but I'm savin' 
dat fer Mies Vallie." He say he don't Vlieve his appetite 
run ter cakes an' pies des dat minnit He des walk np an' 
down, wid his ban's in his pocket. Dar wan't no one else 
nigh me, but dey wuz big clnmp er folks down by de public 
well. 'Twa'n't long 'fo' somebody broke loose fum um an' 
come runnin' to'anis whar I wnz eettin' at 

I know'd in a minnit it wuz Bill-Tom Birch. He come 
mimin' np, suh, an' he wuz so mad he wuz ciyin', an' his 
face wuz wo'kin des like it hn'ted 'im. He holler at me, 

" Is yon de ? " I won't name de name what he call 

me, suh. But I know ef he'd a been a nigger I'd 'a' got 
np fum dar an* brained 'im. I ain't say nothin', I des 
eat dar an' look at 'im. 

Well, suh, he jerk a cowhide fum under his cloze — ^he had 
it run down his britches leg, — an' say, " I'll show you how 
you erfuse ter sell pies whai a gemmen want to buy um." 
I dnnner what I'd a done, suh, ef he'd 'a' hit me, bat he 
ain't hit me, Marse Bolivar walk right 'twlxt as an' 'low, 
" You'll settle dis wid nie, right here an' now," Wid dat 
Bill-Tora Birch step back an' say, " Colonel, does you take 
it ap?" Marse Bolivar 'low, "Dafs what I'm here for," 
Bill-Tom Birch step back a liddle furder, an' msJte ez if ter 
draw his pistol, but his ban' ain't got ter his pocket *fo* 
hangf went Marse Bolivar's gun, an' down went Bill-Tom 
Birch, des like somebody tripped 'im ap. 

Well, suh, time de pistol went ofF folks come runnin' fom 
eve'ywhars. Salem Birch, he come mnnin' 'cross de public 
squar', bekaze he had de idee dat snmp'n done happen. 


Ctie9peaket ss 

ilaiee Bolivar, be see Salem Birdi a^omin', an' be walk 
oat fnni de crowd ter meet 'im. Dat make me feel sorter 
Qture, kaze hit look like be wuz gwine to shoot de man 
down. Bat Salem Birch, he seed 'im, an' be stop an* a&j, 
"Colonel, what de name er God is de matter?* Marse 
Bolivar make answer, " Salem, I had ter shoot yon' bre'r." 
Salem Birch say, " Is he dead ? " Marse Bolivar 'spon', 
" He aint nigh dead. I pat de ball 'twizt de hip an' de 
knee joint. He'll be op in a week." Salem Birch say 
' Colonel, I thank voa fer dst. Will you shake ban's ? ** 
Uane Bolivar say dey ain't nothin' suit 'im better, bdcaw 
he ain't got a thing t^in de Birches. 

An* 'twaz des dat-away. Bill-Tom Birch waz wuss 
■keer'd dan hart Salem Birch, be went off ter Texas, an* 
dem what been dar an' come b»3k, say dat he's one er deze 
yer ervival preachers, gwine *boat doin* good an' taldn* np 
big collections. Daf s what dey say, an' I hope i^e des dat- 
away. I don't bt^ntdee nobody de mon^ dey makes 
preacbio' ter sinners, b«aze hit's dee natchiuly w^arin' ier 
der flesh. 


S4 Cbe %ptaktt 

The Leadership of Educated 


(Eztract frton the address delivered before Uie Alomni of 
Brown Umversily, 1883.) 

T was as scholars that you were here; it is to the 
feeling and life of sdiolara that jou return. I 
mean the scholar not as a specialist or deeply 
profifiient student, not like Darwin, a con- 
queror greater than Alexaoder, who extended 
uie empire of human knowledge; nor like 
Emerson, whose sereoe wisdom, a planet in the cloudless 
heaven, lighted the path of his age to larger spiritual lib- 
erty; nor like Longfellow, sweet singer of our national 
springtime, whose scholarship decorated his pure and 
lunpid song as flowers are mirrored m a placid stream — not 
as scholars like these, but as educated men, to whom the 
dignity and honor and renown of the educated class are 
precious, however remote from study your lives may have 
been, you return to the annual festival of letters. " Neither 
years nor books," says Emerson, speaking of his own col- 
lege days, "have yet availed to extirpate a prejudice then 
rooted in me that a scholar is the favorite of heaven and 
earth, the eicellency of his country, the happiest of men." 

But every educated man is aware of a profound popular 
distrust of the courage and sagacity of the educated class. 
Franklin and Lincoln are good enough for us, exclaims this 
jealous skepticism; as if Franklin and Lincoln did not 
laboriously repair by vigorous study the want of early 
opportunity. The scholar appealing to experience is 
proudly told to close his books, for what has America to do 
with experience? as if books were not the ever-burning 
lamps of aceiimulated wisdom. When Voltaire waa in- 
sulted by the London mob, he turned at his door and com- 
plimented them upon the nobleness of their national char- 
acter, their glorious constitution and their love of liberty. 
The London mob did not feel the sarcasm. But when I 
hear that America may scorn experience because she is a 


CI)e %ittaket ss 

law to herself, I remember that a few years ago a foreign 
obeeryer came to the city of WaeMngton, and said, " I did 
not foUj comprehend your greatness until I saw jour Con- 
gress. Then I felt that if yon could stand that you 
could stand anything, and I undeietood the sajlng uiat 
Ood takes caie of children, drunken men, and the United 

The scholar is denoonced as a covard. Humanity falls 
among thieves, ve are told, and the college Levite, the edu- 
cated PharlBee, pass by on the other side. Slavery under- 
miues the Bepnblic, but the clergy in America are the edu- 
cated class, and the Church nukes itself the bulvark of 
slavery. Strong drink slajm its tens of thousands, but the 
•educated class leaves the gospel of temperance to be 
preached by the ignorant and the enthusiast, as the English 
Establishment left the preaching of regeneration to Meth- 
odist itinerants in fields and bams. Vast questions cast 
their shadows upon ihe future: the just relations of capital 
and labor; the distribution of land; the towering power 
of corporate wealth; reform in administrative methods; but 
the educated class, says the critic, instead of advancing 
to deal with them promptly, wisely and courageously, and 
settling them as morning dissipates the night, without a 
shock, leaves them to be kindled to fury by demagogues, 
lifts a panic cry of communism, and sinks paralyzed with 
terror. It is the old accusation. Erasmus was the great 
pioneer of modern scholarship. But in tiie fierce contest 
of the Reformation Luther denounced him as a time^erver 
and a coward. With the same feeling, Theodore Parker, 
the spiritual child of Luther, asked of Goethe, "Tell 
me, what did he ever do for the cause of man ? " and when 
nothing remained for his country but the dread alterna- 
tive of slavery or civil war, Parker exclaimed sadly of the 
-class to whidi he belonged, " If our educated men had done 
their du^, we should not now be in the ghastly condition 
we bewail." 

Gentlemen, we belong to the accused class. Its honor 
find dignity are very precious to as. Is this humiliating 
arraignment tmeF Does the educated class of America 
especially deserve this condemnation of political recreancy 
and moral cowardice? Faithless scholars, laggard colleges, 
bigoted pulpits, there may be; signal instances you may 
find of feebleness and pusUlanimity. This has always been 


But remanber what Coleridge said to Washisetoii 
Alston, " Never jnd^ a. work of art by ita defects." The 
proper comment to make upon recreant scholars is that of 
Bnminiell's valet upon the tumbled cambric in his bauds. 
" These are our failures." Luther, impatient of the milder 
spirit of Erasmus and Colet and Sir Thomas More, might 
w^ have called them oar failures, because he was of their 
class, and while thev counseled moderation, bis fiery and 
impetaoas soul songbt to seize triple-crowned error and 
drag it fnon its throne. But Luther was no less a echolar> 
and stands equally with them for the scholarly class and 
the heroism of educated men. Eveai Erasmus said of him 
with friendly wit, " He has hit the Pope on the crown and 
the monks on the belly.' If the cowled scholars of the 
Church rejected him, and universities under their control 
renounced and condemned him, yet Luther is justified in 
saying, as he sweeps his hand across them and speaks for 
himself and for the scholars who stood with him, " These 
are not our representatives; these are our failures." 

So on our side of the sea the educated body of Puritan 
Massachusetts Bay, the clergy and the magistrates, drove 
Boger Williams from their bordei8-~Boger Williams, also 
a scholar and a clergyman, and, with John Milton, the 
bright consummate flower of Puritanism. But shall not be 
stand for the scholar rather than Cotton Mather, torturing 
terrified old women to death as witches 1 I appeal from 
Philip drank to Philip sober — from the scholarship that 
silenced Mrs. Hutchison and bung Mary Dyer and pressed 
Giles Corey to death, to the schSarship tliat argued with 
Geoive Fox and foanded a political commonw^th npon 

Here in America, where as yet there are no ruins save 
those of ancient wrongs, undoubtedly New England has 
inspired and molded our national life. But if New Eng- 
land has led the Union, what has led New England? Her 
scholarly class, her educated men, and our Boger Williams, 
gave the keynote. " He has broached and divulged new and 
dangerous opinions against the authority of magistrates," 
•aid Massachusetts, as she banished him. A centaiy later 
bis dangerous opinions had captared Maesachnsetts. loang 
Sam Adams, taking his Master's d^ree at Cambridge, 
argned that it was lawful to resist the supreme magistrate 
if ib» State could not oUierwise be preserved. He was a 
w^ege stripling. But seven years afterward, in 1750, the 


tpbe Weaker sr 

chief polpit orator in New England, Jonathan Maybew, 
preached in Boston the famous sermon vhich Thornton 
called the morning gun of the Bevolution, applying to the 
political situation the principles of Bogei Williams. The 
New England pulpit echoed and re-echoed that morning 
gun, arousing the country, and twenty-five years later its 
warning broke into the rattle of musketry at Lexington and 
Concord and the glorious thunder of Bunker Hill. 

It was a son of Harvard, James Otis, who proposed the 
assembly of an American congress without asking the king's 
leave. It was a son of Yale, John Morin Scott, who de- 
clared that if taxation without representation were to be 
enforced, the colonies ought to separate from England. It 
was a group of New York scholars, John Jay and Scott and 
the Livingstones, which spoke for the colony in response to 
the Boston Port Bill and proposed the Continental Con- 
gross. It was a New England scholar in that Congress, 
whom Bnfus Choate declared to be the distinctive and com- 
prehensive orator of the Revolution, John Adams, who, 
urging every argument, touching every stop of passion, 
pride, tenderness, interest, conscience and lofty indigna- 
tion, swept up his country as into a chariot of fire and 
soared to independence. 

I do not forget that Virginian tongue of flame, Patrick 
Henry, nor that patriotism of the field and fireside which 
recruited the Sons of Liberty. The inspiring statue of the 
Minnte Man at Concord — and a nobler memorial figure 
does not stand upon our soil — commemorates the spirit that 
left the plow standing in the furrow, that drew Nathaniel 
Greene from his anvil and Eaek Hopkins from his farm; the 
spirit that long before had sent the poor parishioners of 
Scrooby to Holland, and filled the victorious ranks of the 
Commonwealth at Naseby and at Marston Moor. But in 
Ameiica as in England they were educated men who in the 
pulpit, on the platform, and through the press, conducted 
the mighty preliminary argument of the Bevolution, de- 
fended the ancient traditions of English liberty against 
reactionary England, aronsed the colonists to maintain the 
cause of human nature, and led them from the Caspee and 
Bunker Hill, across the plains of Saratoga, the snows of 
Valley Forge, the sands of Monmouth, the hiils of Carolina, 
until at Yorktown once more the king surrendered to the 
people; an educated America had saved constitutional 


Jean Valjean and the Bishop 

(A Cutting from " Les MiserableB.") 


N Vauban, a poor French peasant, the only 

apport of IlIs vidowed slater and her seven 

mall children, in a time of great distress, was 

lught in the act of bieakiog into a bakery and 

tealing a loaf of bread for the starring babies. 

[e was convicted of housebreaking and theft, 

need to five years in the galleys, hor repeated 

attempts at escape his sentence was extended, until he had 

serred nineteen years with the iron collar of the galley 

slave about his neck. 

Beneath the cudgel, dragging the chain, beneath the 
burning sun of the galleys, on the plank bed of the convict, 
Jean Valjean withdrew into his own consciouBneas and 
meditated. He constituted himself the tribunal. He began 
by putting himself on trial. He recognized the fact £at 
he was not an innocent man unjustly punished; that it had 
been an act of madness to imagine that any one can escape 
from misery through theft. Then he asked himself whether 
he had been the only one In fault in his fatal history; 
whether it was not a serious thing that he, an industrious 
man, had lacked bread; and whether the fault once com- 
mitted and confessed, the punishment had not been fero- 
cious and disproportioned. 

He judged society and condemned it to his hate. He had 
no weapon hut his hate. He resolved to whet it in the 
galleys and hear it with him when he departed. It was not 
without good cause that Jean Yaljean's passport described 
him as a very dangerous man. 

In 1815 an old man of 75 was Bishop of D . His 

name was M. Charles Francois Bienvenu Myriel. It will 
tell you much of the man 'when I say that hia people always 
called him M. Welcome. His aged sister, Baptistine, and 
Madame Magloire, his old housekeeper, lived with him and 
shared hia life of voluntary poverty. As far as he was able, 
the Bishop tried to follow in the steps of his Divine Master; 


Clie Weaker 39 

but of all the attributes of the Holy One, compassion 
moved him the most deeply, and he loved to reflect it in 
his life. 

One evening the old man vrae busy writing, when Madame 
Uagloire came in, as asnal, to fetch the silver plate from 
the vail cupboard for the supper table. 

" Monseigneur, there will be some sort of a catastrophe 
about the town to-night. Everybody says so. A gallows' 
bird, with a terrible face, is wandering about the town. 
This house is not safe. It is terrible to have doors which 
can be opened from the outside with a latch, and M. has a 
habit of sajring, ' Come in,' even in the middle of the night. 
mon Dieu I " 

There waa a violent rap on the door. " Come in," said 
the Bishop. The door was thrown wide open, and a man 
entered, a cudgel in bis hand and a hideous expression in 
his eyes. 

"My name is Jean Yaljean. I am a galley slave, and 
have spent nineteen years in the bagne. I waa liberated 
four days ago. I have been walking ever since. On com- 
ing into the town I went to the inn, but they turned me out 
on account of my yellow passport. I went to another inn. 
The landlord said, ' Be oa.* I went to the prison, but the 
jailor would not let me in. I went into a dog's kennel, but 
the dog bit me and drove me off as if he had been a man. 
A good woman pointed to your house and said, ' Go and 
hiock there.' What sort of a house is this? Do you keep 
an inn? I will pay. I have one hundred francs, ^een 
sous. I am very tired and hungry. I will pay." 

" Madame Magloire, you will lay another knife and fork." 

"StopI not that! Hero is my passport, yellow, as you 
Bee. Look I It says, ' The man is very dangerous.' Give 
me some food and a bed in your stable." 

" Madame Masloire, you will put clean sheets on the bed 
in the alcove. Sit down and warm yourself. We will sup 
directly, and yonr bed will be got ready while we are 

"Is it true? What! Ton will let me stay? Ton will 
not turn me out? I shall have eopper, a bed. For nineteen 
years I have not slept in a bed. x on receive me as a friend. 
You light your wax candles for me, and yet I have not 
bidden from you whom I am. Yon know I am an outcast, 
a convict, with a yellow passport." 


40 €^e ^eaket 

" You need not liave told me who you tre. This ia not 
my house, bat the house of Christ. This door doea not ask 
a man when he enters if he has a name, bat if be has a 
sorrow. You are Buffering. You are hungry and thirsty. 
And do not thank me. No one is at home here but the 
man who needs refuge; so be welcome. Why should I want 
to know your name? Besides, before you told it you had 
one which I knew. You are my brother. You have suf- 
fered greatly." 

"Oh, mouBieor! The dogs are happier. The red coat, 
the ball on the anlde, a plank to sleep on, heat, cold, toil, 
the blows, the double chun for nothing; a dungeon for 
a word; even sick in bed, and still the chains. Nineteen 
yearst I am forty-sii, and now the yellow passport. That 
la what it ia like." 

" Yes, you have come from a place of sorrow. listen! 
If you come from it with thoughts of anger and of hatred, 
you are worthy of pity. If you leave it with thoughts of 
kindlineae, gentleness and peace, you are worthy — more 
than any of na. But you are hungry. To tablel Sit here, 
on my right" 

Supper over, the Bishop bade his sister good-night, took 
one of the sJlyer candlesticks, handed tae other to hia 
guest, and said: "I will lead you to your room, sir." At 
the moment th^ went through the Bishop's bed-room 
Madame Magloire was putting away the plate in the cup- 
board over the bed. 

Aa two o'clock pealed from the cathedral bell Jean Val- 
jean awoke and began thinking. Many thoughts occurred 
to him, but there was one which constantly reverted and 
expelled all the rest; he had noticed the six silver forks and 
■pooDB and the great silver ladle which Madame Magloire 
had pat in the cupboard in the Bishop's room. The plat« 
was neavy and old. The big soup ladle was worth at least 
two hundred francs, or double what he had earned in nine- 
teen yeara. True, he would have earned more had not the 
officials robbed him. In the midst of his hideoaa medita- 
tions the clock atmck three. It seemed as if this stroke 
said, "To work." He opened hie knapaadc, took out a 
frightful-looking weapon, and advanced cautiously and 
carefully into the Bishop's room. Just as he reached the 
foot of the bed a moonbeam, passing through the tall vin- 


€ie %ttaia « 

dow iUnmined the face of the Bishop and cast a nujeetic 
and eeiene halo arotmd hia white hair and cloeed ejea, his 
face on vhich all vas h»pe and confidence. 

Jean Valjeas atood motionlesB and terrified bj thia 
ImninonB old man. He waa hesitating between two abysses; 
be was ready to dash oat the Bishop's brains or kiss his 
hand. At me expiration of a few minutes his left arm 
slowly rose, and he took oS his cap. Now the moonbeam 
rendered the cmaifiz over the mantel dimly visible. It 
seemed to open its anna for both, with a benediction for 
the one and a pardon for ihe other. All at once Jean Yal- 
jean pnt on hja cap, went straight to the cupboard, laid 
hands npon the silver, leaped from the open window down 
into the garden, bounded over the wall like a tiger and fled. 

The next morning at aunrise Monseigneur Welcome was 
walking about the garden when Madame Magloire came 
mshing toward Mm. 

"Monseigneur! Monseigneur! That man who came last 
night is a robber! Monseigneur, the man has gone; the 
pute is stolen. Witii what will Monseigneur eat now?" 

" Are there not pewter forks to be had? " 

A few minutes later he was breakfasting at the same 
table at which Jean Yaljean sat on the previons evening, 
fllme was a knock at the door and a strange and violent 
gronp appeared on the threshold. Three men were holding 
« fourth by the collar. The three men were guarding the 
fonrtb, Jean Valjean. 

The Bishop advanced as rapidly as his great age per- 
mitted. " Ah, there you are I I am glad to see you. Why, 
how IB this ? I gaTe you the candlesticks, too, which would 
fetch you two hundred francs. Why did you not take them 
with tfie rest of the plate? " 

"Monseigneur, what thia man told us, then, was true. 
We met him, and as he looked as if he were ru nni ng away, 
we arrested him. He had the plate." 

"And he told you that it was fdren to him by an old 
priest, at whose house he passed the night. I see it all. 
And yon brought him back here. That is a mistake." 

" In that ease we can let him go." 

" Of course ! My friend, before you go, take your candle- 
stida. Now, go in peace, and when yon return it is un- 
neceesatr to pass through the garden, for yon can alwaja 
enter, mj and night, by the front door, which ia omj 


latched. Qentlemen, jou may retire." Jean Yaljean looked 
OB if he veie on the point of fainting, " Never forget that 
yon have promised me to employ tbiB money in becomiug 
an honest man. Jean Yaljean, my biottier, yon no longer 
belong to eril, bnt to good. I bare bought your soul of yon. 
I withdraw it from black thonghta and the spirit of perdi- 
tion, and nve it back to God." 

What did Jean Yaljean do after this? Wltither did be 
go P No one ever knew. The only thing that seems to be 
anthenticated is that the maU carrier who arrived at D 
about three o'clock in the morning, saw a man kneeling 
upon the pavement in the shadow, in front of the Bishop's 


Coom, Lassie, Be Good to Me 


(From "McClure's Magazine," September, 1906.) 

Coom, Lassie, be good to me. Winna ye, dear? 
Ye've taen a' my bairt, je shall bae a' my gear; 
I wadna be gangiu' aboot all alane 
It the warld were a' siller, an' yon not my ain. 

The birds are a' matin', the flowers wed the grass, 
An* yon are my springtime, my ain bonnie lass ; 
Like loss o* the snn to the life-springin' sod. 
Put your lips to my ain ; were I yoa I wad. 

My hairt is a thnmpin' like sticks on a dmm. 
Just rantin' wi' hunger ; coom, gie it a crumb ; 
My eyes are a'thirstin' like night for the dew, 
Let them drink, my ain darlin', in one look frae yoo. 

Coom, flll np the crook o* my long waitin* airm, 
ni huddle ye close an* 111 shiel' ye frae hairm, 
Put your ban' in my ain ; let me spier in your ear ; — 
Coom, Iflssie, be good to me. Winna y^ dear F 


A Bird in the Hand 


llieie were three jaang maids of Lee, 

And they were fair c3 fair cao be; 

And thej had loTere three times thiee^ 

For they wera fair ae fair can be, 

These three yoimg maids of Lee. 

But these young maids, they cannot find 

A loTer each to suit her mind ; 

The plain epoke lad is far too rongh ; 

The rich yoong lord not rich enough. 

And one's too poor, and one too tall. 

And one just an inch too short for them alL 

"Others pick and choose, and why not we? 

We can very well wait," said these maids of Lee. 

There were three young maids of Le^ 

And they were fair as fair can be ; 

And they had lovers three times thrM^ 

For they were fair as fair can be, 

These three yoang maids of Lee. 

There are three old maids of Lee, 

And they are old as old can be ; 

And one is deaf, and one can't see, 

And they all are cross as a gallows tiee. 

These three old maids of I^. 

Now, if any one chanced — ^"tis a chance 

One single charm in these maids to note, 

He need not a poet or handsome be, 

For one is deaf, and one can't see; 

He need not woo on his bended knee. 

For they all are willing as willing can be; 

He may take the one, or the two, or the thiee^ 

If he'll only take them away from Lee. 
There are three old mai^ at Lee, 
And they are cross as cross can be, 
And there they are, and there they^l be. 
To the end of the chapter, one, two, Qan, 
These three old maids of Les. 


Ctie«iwaliet « 

The Slow Man 


(Frtca " ^erjhoAfa M agazine," and by permission of the 

[Mr. Poole knows tbe life of whicli he writes in this story. 
He is a settlement worker in the New York Ghetto. He 
has spent some monthe of this past year in Russia studying 
the conditions of the poor. The Bnssian Oovemment 
became suspicious of him, and at last ordered him to leave 
the country. He has contributed two articles on Bnssia to 
"Everybody's Magazine," the last of which, "The Ni^t I 
Became a Kevolutioniet," appeared in the November 

^OHN MiLANSET, tired, awkward, six feet tall, sat 
alone in his tenement room, close under the 
gas-jet, clumsily darning two big holes in a 
wee girl's Btocking. She was five years old, and 
her sister seven. They lay asleep in one bed 
in the one small bedroom, and beside them, in 
another bed, was twelve-year-old Sam. About Sam and the 
two wee girls Milansky eat slowly thinking — harder to- 
night than he had ever thought since his wife died two 
years hack. And he almost forgot that his eyes were aching. 
It was only an hour since he had come from ^e Jewish 
dispensary, where the doctor had said slowly in Yiddish: 
" My friend, you muet get another job, and get it qiiick. If 
jon stay at this job one month longer yon will go blind. 
Do you hear? You will — go — ^blind." 

Chily an hour, hut it seemed a year. All his small hopes 
for Sam and the two wee girls had been suddenly shaken. 
He had felt weak and sick and desperately frightened. 
Then he had pulled himself slowly together, and now was 
thinking — slowly. 

Milansky had always been slow. He had been five years 
in America, and still spoke only the Jewish dialect of his 
native Oalician village. Five years in the buttonhole shop, 
he was still the slowest worker. Being so slow, he mm kept 


M Vie %ftilat 

at the msfiliiue in the comer, where the li^t waa poorest, 
uid there for fire years he had bent to his kbor from seven 
in the morning nntil six at night. It was an amazing 
machine, created by geniuB, kept going by steam, swift, 
strong, precise. All Milansky did was to shove in a coat at 
exactly the right place for bntton holes. The machine in 
one buzz cut the hole, sewed it round, and then waited for 
Milansky. Uilansky was forever behind and striving to 
catch up, bending close, shoving on and on, straining eyes, 
nerves, limbs, and then, as the day faded, feeling eyes, 
nerves, limbs, all slowly wearing out. At six o'clock, in the 
dial, in columns of hundreds of thousands, he found hia 
day's reword — twenty-three hundred buttonholes, which 
meant ten dollars a week. 

And now be must get another job or he would go blindl 
To get another he knew he must speak and learn English. 
He was wondering how long it would take. And his eyes — 
would his eyes hold out? 

The next night Milansky told Sam all about it. At first 
little Sam grew terribly frightened and stared at hie father's 
eyes as though expecting them to suddenly close forever 
and leave him outside. But the eyes looked back steadily, 
bravely; the voice was the same old voice, slow and deep 
and quiet, and as Milansky talked ou Sam grew more and 
more sure that nothing bad had really happened, that they 
were coming out all right. 

So the night lessons began. Sam would teach his father 
Snglish. At first Sam was greatly embarrassed by the 
many pathetic blunders, but in two weeks his father had 
laboriously learned every word in the first thirty pages of 
ttie " Beginner's Reader." 

Sam secretly left school and began selling papers. His 
gang helped him start. In a week he made $3,83, spent 
thirteen cents, and handed the rest one night to his father. 
Milansky was silent for a moment, then suddenly caught 
Sam up and held him so tight he could hardly breathe. At 
this Sam was greatly embairaBsed, for he saw his " kid " 
sisters watching. He slipped down and began reading rap- 
idly, " See the dog how he runs." The next morning he 
was sent back to school, and afterwards he went, under 
orders, to the Settlement to rejoin hia club. " He wants 
me ter git all there is comin'," he explained. 


Cbe ^eoitet «? 

And now each moming the machine in the shop went 
slower as the eyea grew steadily worse. Each day tne dial 
kept relentless account, and at 3 o'clock showed Milansky 
jost how much elover he was than the day before. Then 
he would start o£E on the afternoon's search. He was not 
alone, for in that dense square mile of humanity, the Lower 
East Side, there were at that very time twenty thousand 
men and women who wanted work and could not find it. 
He met their faces wherever he went, long lines of faces, 
waiting their turn at bureaus of employment 

Twenty thousand faces forever changing, for many are 
young and strong; they get work and new recruits take 
their places. But the veterans, the slow, the sick, weary 
old veterans, not tramps, but men who have worked half a 
lifetime, th^ shuffle on and on, ashamed, cast out by us all, 
condemned for the crime which of all human crimes is most 
heavily punished, the crime of the age, the crime of being 

Five weeks were gone. At last one night Milansky came 
home at sis o'clock. He knew that the fight could last hut 
a few days longer. He conld not see the doorknob in the 
gaslight of the hall. He was let in by the girl of eight who 
was cooking gruel for supper. He fell exhausted on the 
lounge in the comer — and slept. 

A half hour passed. The door banged hard below. Sam 
came up three flights two steps at a time. He burst breath- 
less into the room. " Sayl he's broke his leg; fell free 
floors — mashedl Yer can see de bone! He's a dead one 
for two months — that's wot he is. A dead one I " Milan- 
sky had leaped np with his bands to his eyes. He was try- 
ing hard to catch the excited words, " Dead! Dead! Who? 
What?" "De janitor of de Settlement! Say, listen! De — 
janitor — of — de — Settlement — see? — is — dovm an' oat — fer 
two months! An' youse — will get his johl I asked fer it 
before de ambulance come! De head lady wants yer ter 
come an* see her — eome on! Ter getter talk up! Yer 
gotter talk, 'canae I says yer could. Come on, and bring de 
Krat Ecaderl " 

The scene at the Settlement was brief, but "de head 
lady " will never forget it. In her small front room stood 
little Sam, prond and radiant. Beside him towered Milan- 
iky, bewildered, awkward, weak. As she came forward she 


48 cije ^eahet 

could see bis ejee aaddenly grow anxious, and as she began 
to speak he leaned eagerly forward in strained attention. 
She nad asked him where he lived. He could not catch the 
worda. He struggled for speech. Sam stepped quickly 
from behind him. 

" Two-t'irty-two Broome Street, top floor back." 

" Wait, Sam; let your father speak." 

*' I speak," said Milaneky. " I de fadder." 

" Of course you do," she said, ^owly. " Have you any 
other children?" 

" Sure, we have," cried Sam. 

"Sam — ^wait," She repeated the question. Her eyes 
were still drawn to his whue he answer^ " Two— leetle — 
girls." "And — your iTife?" "My wife ees d^d." 
" Bully," whispered Sam from behind. "Yer speak buUyl " 
" And your work. Where did you work? " She was watdi- 
ing stiU the eager, strained pause, the anxious eyes trying 
to understand. " Work! — yes. I work — I work for — de 
mosbeen. De masheen — he make — ^buttonhole." 

With an effort she drew her eyes away from his. 
"HftTen't yon trouble with your eyes? Your eyes?" She 
pointed to her own. "Ahl Mein eyes! Yes. De masheen 
— er ist bad." His eyes spoke—the low broken words only 
followed. "De masheen — ^he get — ^too close — lady — too 
close — alles de time. When I try — to get to sleep — ^he 
come — he stay alles de night — too close — ^too close." He 
drew himself up and waited for the next question, 

" Say, lady, his eyes ain't bad, dey ain't, dey ain't! " Sam, 
too, had suddenly grown anxious. " He's doin* fine. He's 
a-gettin' better. He can do de work, lady, he can, he cant 
He's de highest man on de block. Dat's wot he is, an* he^s 
square — awful square! Oh, pop, you tell her, tell her yer 
is on de level." 

"I — ess— on — de — ^level," said Milansky, slowly, stand- 
ing very straight. 

" De head lady " turned suddenly and walked to the win- 
dow. There was a moment of tense, anxious silence. 

"Yep think he can't speak good: he can, lady, he can." 
Sam suddenly touched her arm. She turned to speak — ^but 
otapped. Milansky stood before her with his book open. 
His face was white and strained, his eyes fixed painfully on 
the open page. His breath came hard between set teeth. 
In a moment he began: 


C&e %pealtec 49 

" Willie eflB — having a good — ^time see Willie — and liees 
dog — ^how they nm — ^napp; Willie — " The scene abrnptly 
aided. For " de head lady " was " down an' ont" 

She pnt her bands before her face to conceal her tears. 

Oae bIot, wear; veteran had found a job. 

Emmy Lou 


[These sketches, which appeared from time to time in 
"McClore'B Magazine," have been gathered into a very 
attractive volume entitled "Emmy Loa, Her Book and 
Heart" This dear little girl made ao many warm friends 
throngh the medium of the printed page that she is sore 
to be donbly welcome when interpreted by imagination and 
aympathy through voice and action. MeClnre, Phillips & 
Co., New York. $1.50.] 

%BOAUSE of a popular prejudice against whooping 

Bl cough, Emmy Lou had not entered the primer 
I clasa until late. Miss Clara did not know what 
1 to do with the late comer, so she gave her a seat 
I and told her to copy digits. Kow, what digits 
I were Emmy Lou had no idea, but, being shown 
them on the blackboard, she copied them diligently. And, 
as the time went on, Emmy liiu went on copying digits, 
wondering what it was all about — which woalA not have 
been the case had there been a mother among the elders in 
her home. To Emmy Lou "mother" had come to mean 
but a memory which faded as it came, a vague consciousness 
of encircling arms, of a brooding, tender face, of yearning 
eyes. Emmy Loa lived now with her three annties and 
TJnde Charlie. 

Emmy Lou, laboriously copying digits, looked up. A lit- 
tle boy was holding out an end of a severed india-mbber 
band and inviting her to take it. When Emmy Lou took 
the proffered end the little boy slid back into his desk, hold- 
ing to bis ^d. Then he let go. Emmy Lou's heart stood 


atiU. TbeD it evdled. Bat eren while a tear splashed 
down, she smiled braTel; acroSB at the little boy. It would 
have made the little boy feel bad to know how it hart, she 
tiiou^t. So Emmy Lou winked bravely and smiled. 
Whereupon the little boy wheeled aboat suddenly and fell 
to copying digits farioosly. Nor did Emmy Lou dream that 
across the aisle remorse was eating into a little boy's souL 
Or that, alone wiUi remorse, there vrent the image of one 
Enuny Loa, defenceless, pink cheeked and smiling bravely. 
From that moment on the little boy was moved to strange 

Three times before recess did he, boldly ignoring the 
preface of upraised hand, swagger np to Miss Clara's desk, 
and, going and coming, the little boy's boots, with copper 
toes and nm^down heela, marked witn thnmping emphasis 
npon the echoing boards his processional and recessional. 
Arid, reaching his desk, the little boy slammed down his 
elate with clattering reverberations. Enmiy Lou watched 
him oneaaily, trembling in misery for the little boy. 

Having clattered his slate until Mjbs Clara rapped 
sharply, the little boy arose and went swaggering on an 
fflccarsion around the room to where sat the bnStet and 
dipper. On his T7ay he passed by a lachrymoeal little girt 
with yellow carls. He oeftly lifted a cherished curl and 
passed on his way. The litUe girl snrprised even the little 
boy by the Buddennsea of her outcry. Miss Clara jumped. 
" Billy Traver ! Since you seem pleased to occupy yourself 
with the little girls, go to the pegs I " 

Emmy Lou trembled. "Go to ttie pegsl" What 
unknown inquisitorial terrors lay behind those dread 
laconic words Enuny Lon knew not. 

She could only sit and watch the little boy turn and 
stamp back down the aisle to where, along the wall, hung 
rows of feminine apparel. He paused before a hat It was 
a round little hat, with silky nap and a curling brim. It 
was Emmy Lou's hat. The little boy took it down and pnt 
it upon his own shock head. The sixty-nine pupils in the 
room laughed. The seventieth did not. It was her hat, 
and besides, she did not anderstaud. 

" And now, since yoa are a litQe girl, get your book, 
Billy, and move over with the girls." 

Nor did Enuny Lou understand why, when Billy, having 
gathered his belongings together, moved across the aisle 


Cfie ^eaket si 

sod Bat down with her. The sizty-nine laughed ag&in. 
Bimay Lou did not \aagh. She made room for Billy. It 
never could have occurred to Emmy Lou that Billy had laid 
his cunning plan to this rery end. She only pitied Billy, 
and presently she proffered him the hoepitality of a grimy 
little slate rag. When Billy returned the rag there was 
something in it — something wrapped in a beautiful paper. 
It was a candy Idaa. 

On the road home Enuny Lou ate the candy. The slip of 
paper she carried to Aunt Cordelia, who read: 

" Oh, woman, woman, thou wert made 
The peace of Adam to invade." 

The aunties laughed, but Emmy Lon put the beaatifnl 
paper in her primer. 

About this time rumors began to reach Emmy LoiL She 
beard that it was February, and that wonderful things were 
peculiar to the 14ib — Valentine Day. The valentine must 
come from a little boy or it was not the real thing. And 
to get no valentine was a dreadful, dreadful thing. Emmy 
Lon wondered if she would get a valentine, and if not, how 
waa she to survive the contumely and shame. 

In doubt and wretchedness did she vend her way to 
school on the 14th of February. She was early. On her 
desk lay Bomething square and white. It was a beantiful 
envelope, all over fiowers and scrolls. 

Emmy Lon knew it. It was a valentine. Her cheeks 
grew pink. She took it out. It was blue, and it was gold, 
and it had reading on it. 

Emmy Lon's heart sank. She could not read the reading. 
The door opened. Some little girls came in. Emmy Lou 
hid her valentine in her book, for you must never, never 
breathe to even your best and truest little girl friend what 
was on yoar valentine. 

When she went home she followed Aunt Cordelia about. 

"What does it read— B-e?" 

" Be," said Aunt Cordelia. 

After dinner she approached Aunt Eatie. 

"What does it read— M-y?" 


The rest was harder. She could not remember the letters 
and bed to copy them off on her slate. Then she toogfat 


KB ctie 9peaitei 

Tom, the hoiue bojr. It took Tom Bome tim^ bat at last he 
told her. Just then ft littie girl came along. 

" Get any valentines?" 

" Yes ; it has reading on it." 

" Pooh ! Iliey all have that. My momma's been reading 
the long verses to me." 

" Can you show them — valentinea ? " 

" Of eoaree; to grown-up people." 

Emmy Ixm ran in. Uncle Charlie was there, and the 
annties sitting aronnd ready. 

" I got a valentine ! " -, 

Emmy Lon laid the bine and gold valentine on Aunt 
Cordelia's knee. Emmy Lon's chubby forefinger pointed to 
the words beneath the clasped hands. 

" I can read it." TJncle Charlie put down his paper. 
Aunt Louise looked over Aunt Cordelia's shoulder. 

" B-e, Be." The aunties nodded. 

" M-y, My. T-a-1-e-n-t-i-n-e, Valentine. Be my Valen- 

" There 1 She can read," said Aunt Cordelia. 

" Well ! " said Aunt Katie. 

" At last" said Aunt Lonise. 

" H-m ! " said Unfile Charlie. 


IE-it Speaker u 



[This etory ie published by the Century Company in a 
most attractive book containing five of Mr. Long's Japanese 
tales. The bool: i^Jces ita title from the first " Uadame 
ButterSy," a stot; vbich has been successfully dramatized 
and also used as a monologue by several readers. In 
" Uadame Glory," as in most of the recent Japanese stories, 
the dramatic theme is the clashing of Eastern and Western 
ideals of life. Qlory in accepting the husband brought to 
her by the professional matchmaker, a husband whom she 
never pretended to respect, is but following Japanese tra- 
dition. She is innocent of wrung, of any thought of disloy- 
alty to him whom she loves wholly, without reserve, after 
the manner of the noble women of every age and condition 
since time began. The tragedy oomes when she discovers 
that her lover has another ideal — one which her woman's 
heart inatzntly comprehends.] 

F^^^^^nwr Madame Pine- Tree noticed the increased 
I devotion of her daughter-in-law. Then, to sat- 
I isfy her curiosity concerning it, she slipped be- 
A hind the fusuma one morning, when Glory was 
I saying her prayers, and this is what she heard: 
__ _ F "Oh, Shakal H^ill hail! haUI Also perceive! 
And all the augustnesses, haill and perceive^ Look down. 
I have brought a sacrifice of flowers, and new rice. Also, I 
am quite clean. I am shining with cleanness. Therefore, 
grant thou then my one honorable war! " 

Madame Fine-Tree pushed the fnsnTna noisily aside. 
Glory put her hands apon the floor and her forehead on 
them and saluted her husband's mother, an became her. Tn 
Japan every Jaaghter-in-Iaw is the humble servant of her 
" Why do yon pray for ww? SpeakI " 
"That Ji-Saturo may come. If there is war he got 


come from Americs an' fight, aa' I lie jtu* see him — if ht 
come, of course. Maf I don' keer liddle biti " 

" Speak Japanese to me, madamel " 

"Ah-ah-ali! Please aexcuse me. I 'moat always fraget- 
ting. Sore-wa makoto-ni o kino-do o kusama." 

War woe declared, and lo! early one momiDg there ma a 
koock OQ the amado, and the little maid anaoTiDced not 
only Ji-Saturo, but that he waa in nnif orm and had a band- 
age about hiB headi 

Glory prostrated heraelf at the shrine. " Shaka, thou art 
ahnightjl " 

Ji-Saturo took her in Ma arms and kiaaed her in Weatem 
fashion. She was visibly frightened. 

" But we were betrothed in infancy." 

" Yais, I got do what jon as' me. I got, but I naerer been 
kiss by nobody. Kow thing Ijout that. How I going know 
hoio that is nize? How you also know aezcep* yon learn? 
How do you learn those P You been betroth wim — with — 
another? Ah, those purple-eye Americans. Sov they are 
beautiful I" 

" Glory, I ahall tell you about the purple-eyed woman. 
I confesa. There was one, and I asked her to marry me." 

" You as' the girl— herself ? Not her father? An' all 
her uncles? " 

" In America the girl herself decides." 

"ffotuthatis nizel An' — an' she going marry yon? Yon 
going marry she? " 

" No." 

" Ab-ah-ah! Tha'a aawry — ^ver' sawry. I don' lig that. 
Tha's not nize. Take 'nother cup tea — «n' rice cake?" 

" She is not aorry, nor am I, now. Nor need you be. She 
said I ought to marry a Japanese girl. She was rig^t. You 
have b«ued me alrtidy. Glory." 

" Ohi — an' — an' you go'n marry me — ^lig our both parents 
promise each other — long ago? Ji-Saturo— yon go'n marry 

" Yes, yoo sprite! I shall marry you." And he kissed 
her again. 

"Ah! I am bappier than I hare aever been ainz I waa 
homed! Alt the enl years are blotted out by jus* thia one 
liddle minute! So I don' keer who teach tou— jua* if you 
teach mef" She drew hia bayonet. " I don* lig that yon eo£ 


Ctie ftpeafcei ss 

with a STord, Ani-saii. Uebby yon git kill sometime, an' 
I joe liddle ole widovs." 

'^ I am entitled to my discharge. Ill stay right here asd 
not ran the risk of maJcing you a widow. We will be mar- 
ried at once." 

"No! no! not now! I am marry jus* now. They make 
me marry account I so poor. This hosban' he gitting tire' 
of me now. An' me? Oh, kow I gitting more tire' of him I 
An' of that mother of himi He go'n divorce me, I egspeg, 
account I don' lig those mother. See! tha's how I rnofcs 
him divorce me. I will never lig those mother. Then — 
then — ah, Ji-Saturo, you shall marry me! Jus' lig I been 
praying for aever sinise I been homed. Ah — ah — ah! all 
the gods in the BkyI What I done with you to put such a 
loog in your faceP Speak it to me! Ji-Saturo, speak! " 

" Permit me to go withoat speaking; that is best. I was 
mistaken in thinking I am a Japanese. I am nothing. Bom 
here, bred there. To be mamed and divorced so easily is 
held an evil custom by all the rest of the world. Forgive 
me. Glory. You are innocent. I am not. God help mel 
I have eaten of the tree of knowledge." 

" Oh, Shaka! Jus' one minute ago I was that happy. Ah, 
Ji-Sati^o, all the days, an' nights, an' months, an' years I 
hare waited and prayed jus* to see you. I did not dream 
that you might wish for marry me. If I had jne* dream 
those, I should have been a nun for you, Ji-Saturo, a nun. 
An' I — when you see me I am jus' «mI. Forgive me, Ani- 
san. I would die rather than make you thing regret. Jus', 
jus' I shall always be sad in hereafter. An will you be a 
liddle kine to me — oh, jus' a liddle — account I got be al- 
ways sad? " 

He caught her hands, kissed them one after the other, 
and was gone. He was just disappearing when her husband 

" Oh, all the gods, how I hate you! You have made me 
evil! " 

One moment of amazed silence. Then he Btruck hes, 
and, as she lay at his feet, be called to his servant: " Find 
the nakodo. Let him return her to her father. Take all 
the presents she brought." 

She was divorced. Her purification began at the great 
Temple of Asaknea. I cannot stop to tell what it cost of 
penance and travail. They bad never seen the evil she a»- 


66 CDs ftpeabet 

ciued herself of, prayed for, but for the peace of her soal 
they humored her, the gentle prieets. Xov she was without 
sin, they aaid. So she meant always to remain. They burnt 
incense upon her, and with smiles gave her the blessings 
of all the gods as she went forth to find Ji-Satoro. 

The task was long, and everywhere the wounded needed 
her, and she became a nurse. Soon there was not a field 
hospital where the wan face of the " spirit nurse " was not 
imown. And one day the great commander himself came 
to see and thank her. She told him quite simply all her lit- 
tle story. And he, looking into her worn face, told her, 
with geDeroos untruth, that Ji-Saturo had been made a 
colonel, had gone home to marry her and had not found her 
there. He would be with her in six days now. She must 
rest a great deal and sleep, and Ji-Saturo would come. 

Witmn an hour a courier left with a message from the 
commander to Ji-Saturo. In six days he was at her side. 
She was in her dainty wedding garments, her head resting 
lightly on her bent arm, her unbound hair duskily framing 
her face. Very young and very beautiful it looked in death. 
The expression of ineffable peace had come, they told him, 
-with her last wordi vhidi had been his nama. 


CDe leaflet s? 

The Rose and the Gardener 


[" The EoBe and the Gardener," " The Cap That Fita," 
"The Cur6'fl Progress." All of the TeiBee which Aoatm 
DofaeoD cares to preserve are published in two Tolomes by 
Dodd, Mead & Co., and b; K^^ Paul, Trench & Co., 
LtmdoD. One critic says of them : " One approaches the 
poems of Anatin Dobson as one stands before a rare collec- 
tion of enamels, fan-monnts, jewelled snoS-bozes and deli- 
cate earrings in ivoiy and silvei. Just as the scent of rose 
leaves, lavender and mask rises from antique Chinese jars, 
so Dobson's delicate verse reconstmctB a life 'of fashion 
gone and half-fo^tten ways.' " " Secrets of the Heart," 
" The Idyll of the Carp," and some others make charming 

The Bose in the gard^i slipped her bad. 
And ^e laaghed in the priae of her yonthful blood, 
As she thought of the Gardener standing by — 
" Be is old, — so old I And he soon most die I " 

The full Hose waied in the warm June air. 
And she spread and spread till her heart lay bar^ 
And she laughed once mors as she heard his tread — 
" He is older now I He will soon be dead I ** 

Bnt the breeze of the morning blew and found 
That the leaves of the blown Rose strewed the ground; 
And he came at noon, thr.t Gardener old. 
And he raked them gently waAet the mold. 

And I wove die thing to a random rhyme, 
For the Bose is Beauty, the Gardener, Time. 


<■ CdeftiKakn 

The Cap That Fits 

" Qui sime ipines n'oSle dSchatut." 

Sosvx: A salon with blue and white panels, Oaiii^ 
pereoDB pass and re-pass upon a terrace. 

Hortense. Armande. Monaiear Loyal. 

Hortente (behind her fan). — 

Not joosg, I think. 
Armande (raising her eye-glass) , — 

And faded, too ! — 

Quite faded I Monsienr, what Bay yon P 
if. Loyal.— 

Nay, — I defer to yon. In tmUi, 

To me she seems all grace and youth. 
Boriense. — 

Graceful? Yoa think it? What, uriOi hands 

That haog like this (with a gestore). 
Armaad«. — 

And how she stands I 
M. Loyal.— 

Nay, — I am wrong again. I thoaght 

Her air delightfulfy untaught I 
Hortense. — 

Bnt yon amuse me — 
X. Loyal.— 

Still her dresB,— 

Her dress at least, yoo mtut conteea— 
Armande. — 

Ib odious Bimply I Jacotot 

Did not supply that lace, I know; 

And where, I ask, has mortal seen 

A hat unf eathered I 
Eoriense, — 

Edged vitti green t 
M. Loyai. — 

The words remind me. Let me say 

A Fable that I heard to-day. 

Have I peimiasionP 


Beth (witiicaithiisumn).— 

If onsieiir, prtT I 
21. Loyal.— 

Hyrtilla (lest a scandal rise, 

The IsAfi Name I thus disroise), 

Djring of Ennui, once decided, — 

Much on Beeoorce herself she prided, — 

To chooee a Hat. Forthwith she flies 

On that momentons Enterprise. 

Whether to Petit or Legros, 

I know not: only this I know; — 

Head-dresses then, of any fashion. 

Bore names of Quality or Passion. 

Myrtilla tried them, almost all : 

" Prndence," she felt, was somewhat small; 

"Eetirement" seemed the Eyes to hide; 

" Content " at once she cast aside. 

" Simplicity," — ^'twas oot of place; 

" Devotion," for an older face ; 

Briefly, selection smaller grew, 

" Vexatious ! " odious 1 None would do ! 

Then, on a sudden, she espied 

One that she thought she had not tried : 

Becoming, rather, — " edged with green," — 

Roses in yellow, Thorns between. 

" Quick I Bring me that f " ' Tis hronght. " Com* 

DiTine, Enchanting, Tasteful, Neat," 

In all the Tones. " And this yon call— ? " 

'"lU-Nature,' Madame. It fits all." 
Bortense. — 

A thousand thanks ! So naively turned ! 
Armande. — 

So useful, too ... to those concerned I 

Tis yours? 
X. Loyal. — 

Ah, no, — some cynic wif s ; 

And called (I think)— 

(Plactng his hat upon his breast), 
" The Cap That Pits." 


Cbt ^eatet 

The Cure's Progfress 

Uoiuiear the Curd down the street 

Comes with his kind old face, — 
With his coat worn bare, and his stra^liog hair, 

And his green umbr^la-caee. 

Yon maj see him pass by the little " Oraade Plaa 

And ttie tiny " Hfltel-de-ville " ; 
He smiles, as he goes, to the fleuriste Bose, 

And the pompier Th6ophile. 

He tarns, as a role, through the " Marcki " cool. 

Where the noisy fish-wiTea call ; 
And bis compliment pays to the " Bells TkSrin," 

As she knits in her duBl^ stall. 

There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop. 

And Toto, the locksmith's niece. 
Has jnbilant hopes, for the Cor^ gropes 

In his tails for a pain d'ipice. 

There's a little dispute with a merchant of fniil^ 

Who is said to be heterodox. 
That will ended be with " Ma foi, oui! " 

And a pinch from the Curb's box. 

There is also a word that no one heard 

To the farrier'e daughter Lou ; 
And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red, 

Aoi. a " Btm Dieu garde M'sieu!" 

Bat a grander way for the Sous-Prifet, 

And a bow for Ma'am'selle Anne ; 
And a mock " off-hat " to the notary's cat, 

And a nod to the sacristan : — 

For ever fhron^ life the Curt goes 
With a smile on his kind old face — 

With bis coat worn bare, and bis straggling hair. 
And his gre^i umbrella-case. 


die ^eakei <si 

The Philosopher in the Apple 



T ms a charmingly mild and balmy day. A light 
breeze stirred Sie boaghs of the old apple tree 
under which (be philosopher sat reading. The 
book was a treatise on ontology; it was written 
by another philosopher, a friend of this philos- 
opher ; it bristled with fallacies, and this philos- 

opher was discovering them all and noting them on uie fly- 
leaf at the end. He found a pleasnre in strippirg any poor 
fallacy naked and cmcifying it 

Pi^ntly a girl in a white frock came into the orchard. 
She walked np to where the philosopher cmcified a fallacy 
on the fly-leaf. 

" Mr. Jemingham, are you very bosy ? " The philosopher, 
pencil in hand, looked up. 

" No, Miss May ; not very." 

" Becanse, I want your opinion." 

" In one moment" 

He tnmed back to the fly-leaf and began to nail flie last 
&Uacy a little tighter to the cross. The girl r^arded him, 
first with amused impatience, then with a vexed frown, 
finally with a wistful regret He was not so very old for his 
age, she thou^t ; he could not be beyond thirty ; his hair 
was thick and full of waves ; his eyes bright and clear; his 
complexion not yet divested of all youth's relics, 

"Now, Mise May, I am at your service." 

"Ifs a very important thing I want to ask you, and ifs 
renr — difficult uid you mustirt tell any one I asked yon ; 
at least, I'd rather you didn't." 

"I ^lall not Bp^ of it; indeed, I shall probably not 
remember it. 

" And yon nnista't look at me, please, while I'm asking 

" I don't think I was looking at yon, but if I was, I ask 
yonr pardon." 
" Sappose a man — No, that's not right" 


<s Cite ^lealtet 

" Yoa can talk an; hjpothesis ;oa please, bat yoa most 
rerifv it afterward, of cotiree." 

" Oh, do let me go on. Snppow a girl, Mr. Jemin^ian 
— 1 vnah yoa wouldn't nod." 

" It wae onl; to show that I foUowed yoa." 

" Oh, of coarse, yoa ' follow me,' as yoa call it Suppose 
a gill had two lovers — ^you're nodding a^ain — or, I oo^t t» 
say, suppose there were two men who might be in love with 
a girl." 

" Only two P Yoa see there are any number of men who 
might be in lore with — " 

" Oh, we can leave the rest oat; they don't matter." 

"Very well; if they are irrderant, we will put then 

"Suppose then, that oae of these men was — c^ 
€wfuily in lore with the girl, — and — and — ^proposed, yoa 

" A mcnsent I Let me take down his propoBiti(m. What 
was it?" 

" Why, proposed to her, — asked her to manr him." 

" Dear me I How stupid of me 1 I forgot that special um 
of flie word — yes ? " 

" The girl likes him pretty well, and her people appnnv 
of him, and all that, you know." 

" That simplifies the problem." 

"But she's not in — in love with him, yoa know. Sha 
doesn't really care for him — much. Do yon nnderstand? " 

" Perfectly. It is a most natural state of mind." 

" Well, then, suppose that there's another man — What 
are you writing P" 

" I only put down ' B,' like that," pleaded the philosopher, 
meekly exhibiting his notebook. 

" dh, you really are. But let me go on. The other 
man is a friend of the girl's; he's clever — oh, fearfully 
clever; and he's rather handsome. Yon needn't put that 

" It is certainly not very material." 

"And the girl is most awfully — ehe admires him tre- 
mendously ; ehe thinks him just the greatest man that era 
lived, you know. And she — she — " 

"I'm following." 

" She'd think it better than the whole world if — if abe 
oooJd be anything to him, yon know." 


die ftpealtet ^ 

" Yoa mean beccone hia wife? " 

" Well, of coarse, I do. At least I sappoee I do." 

" Yon spoke rather va^elj, yon know." 

" Yes, Idid mean become lus wife." 


"Snt he doesn't think much about those things. He 
likes h^. I think he likes her — " 

"Well, doesn't dislike her? Shall we call him indiffer- 

"I don't know. Tee, rather indifferent. I don't think 
he thinks about it, yon know. Bat she — she's pretty. Ton 
needn't pnt that down." 

" I was not about to do so." 

" She thinks life with him would be jnst heaven ; and — 
and she thinks she would make him awfully happy. She 
would — would be so proud of him, you see," 

"I see. Yea." 

" And — I don't know how to pnt it, qoite. She thinks 
ttiat if erer he thought about it at all, he might care for her ; 
becanse he doesn't care for anybody else, and she's 
pret^— " 

" Yott said that before." 

" Oh, dear 1 I dare say I did. And most men care for 
Bom«^dy, don't they ? Some girl, I mean." 

" Most men do, no doubt" 

" Well, then, what ought she to do ? It^s not a real thing, 
yon know, Ifr. Jemingham. It's in — ^in a noTel I waa read- 

"Dear mel And ifs quite an interesting easel Yes, I 
•ee; The qneetion is. Will she act most wisely in accepting 
the offer of the man who loves her exceedingly, but for 
whom she entertains only a moderate affection — " 

" Yes, just a liking. He's just a friend." 

"Exactly. Or, in marrying the other, whom she loves 
ex — " 

"That^s not it. How can she marry him? Ha hasn't — 
he hasn't asked her yet, you see." 

" Tme, I forgot IJet ns assume, though, for the mo- 
ment he has asked her. She would then nave to consider 
which marriage would probably be, most productive of the 
greater sum total of — " 

" Oh, but you needn't conaider that" 

" But it seems the beet logical order. We can afterward 


64 cde %^taitn 

make sUorance for the element of uncertain^ caused 

" Oh, no I I don't vant it like that. I know perfectly 
veil vbich she'd do if he — Hie other man, yon know — 
asked her." 

" You appr^ead that — " 

" Nerer mind what I ' apprehend.' Take it just as I told 

" Very good. A has asked for her hand ; B has not." 

" Yes." 

" May I take it that, but for the disturbiog' influence of 
B, A wonld be a satisfactory — er — candidate?* 

" Ye-es, 1 think so." 

" She therefore enjoys a certainty of considerable hap- 
piness if she marriea A." 

" Ye-ea. Not perfect, because of — B, you know." 

" Quite so, quite so ; but still a fair amount of happiness. 
Is it not 80 ? " 

" I don't — well, perhaps." 

" On the other hand, if B did ask her, we are to poetnlato 
s higher degree of happiness for her P " 

" Yea, please. Mr. Jeminghsm — ^much h^her." 

"But his asking her is a contingency only?" 

"Yea, that's alL" 

" My dear young lady, it becomes a qneBtion of degree.. 
How probable or improbable is it?" 

" I don't know. Not very probable — ^unless — ^unless — " 


" TJnless he did happen to notice, you know." 

" Oh, yes. We supposed that it be thought of it be would' 

{irobably take the desired step — at least that he mi^t he- 
ed to do so. Could she not — er — indicate her preference 7 " 

" She might try — no, she couldn't do much. Yon see, — 
be don't think about such things." 

" I understand precisely. And it seems to me. Miss May, 
that in that very fact we find our solution." 

"Do we?" 

" I think BO. He has evidently no natural inclination 
towards her — perhaps not toward marriage at all. Any 
feeling arooaed in him would be necessarily shallow and in 
a measure artificial — and in all likelihood purely temporary. 
Moreover, if she took steps to arouse his attention, one of 


tvo tltings Toald be likely to happen. Are ;oa following 

" Tea, Mr. Jenungbam." 

" Either he would be repelled by her overtures — ^which, 
yon most admit, is not imprdiable — and then the poeitioiL 
would be unpleasant and even d^rading to her. Or, on th» 
other, be might, through a misplaced feeling of gal* 
lintry — " 

" I'hrough what ? " 

"Through a mistakeu idea of politeness or a mistaken 
TOW of what was kind, allow himself to be drawn into a 
connection for which he had no genuine liking. You agree 
with me that one or another of these things might be likely 
to happen ? " 

" Yee, I suppose they would, unless be did come to can 
for her." 

" Ah, yon return to that hypothesis. I think if a an ex- 
tremely fanciful one. No. She needn't marry A, but she 
must let B alone." 

" And you would advise her to marry the other — A? " 

"Well, on the whole, I should. A is a good fellow (I 
think we made A a good fellow) ; he is a suitable match; 
his love for her is true and genuine^ " 

*' If s tremendous." 

" Yea, and— er — ectreme. She likes him. There is every 
reason to hope that the liking will develop into a sufficiently 
deep and staple afTection. She will get rid of her folly 
about B and make A a good wife. Yes, Kiss May, if I were 
tbe author of your novel, I should make her marry A, and 
I should call that a happy ending. Is that sU you wanted 
my opinion about, Miss May?" 

*' Yes. I think so. I hope I haven't bored you." 

" I've enjoyed the discussion extremely. I bad no idea 
noTcls raised points of such psychological interest. I must 
find time to read cme." 

Looking away toward the paddock that lay brilliant in 
tbe nmshine on the skirts of the apple orchard, she asked, 
in slow tones : 

"Don't you think, perhaps, if B found out afterward — 
when she had married A, you know — that she had cared for 
him BO very, very much, he might be a little sorry ? " 

" If he were a gentleman, he would r^ret it deqily." 


66 ciie ^eabet 

" I mean — eoiry on hie own account^ that — fliat he bad 
thrown away all that, yon know." 

The profeeaor looked meditative. 

" I tmnk it is very possible he would. I can well imag- 
ine it." 

" He might never find anybody to love him like that 

" He probably would not" 

" And — and most people like being loved, don't they? " 

" To crave for love is an almost nniTereal instinct, Miss 

" Tee, almost Yoa see, hell get old and have no one to 
look after him." 

" He will." 

" And no home." 

" Well, in a sense none. Bat really yoall fri^ten me, 
I'm a bachelor myself, yon know. Miss May." 

" Yes." 

" And all your terrors are before me." 

"Well, unless — " 

" Oh, w» needn't have that unless. There's no unless 
about it. Miss May." 

She opened her lips as if to epea^ and at the thought 
of what lay at ber tongue's tip, tier face grew red. Her 
blush faded away into palenese, her lips closed. Without 
speaking, she tamed and walked slowly away, her head 
drooping. The philosopher heard the rustle of her skirt 
in the long grass of the orchard ; he watched her for a few 

" A pretty, graceful creature," said he, vritti a smile. Then 
he opened his book, took his pencil in his hand, and slipped 
in a careful forefinger to mark the fly-leaf. 

The sun had passed mid-heaven, and b^an to decline 
westward before ne finished hie book. Then he stretched 
himself and looked at his watch. 

" Good gracious t Two o'clock ! I ehall be late for lunch," 
and he hurried to his feet 

" That was a very interesting case of Mise May's. I won- 
der which she will many, A or B?" 


mt ^leattet er 

The Photograph 


[The poems of Faiil Laorence Duabsi lend themselTeB 
-to recitation as few others in our day. Other popolar read- 
ings in the same volume, " Lyrics of the HearUiside/' Dodd, 
Mead & Co., New York, $1.25, from which this is taken, 
are "When the Old Man Smokes," "Little Brown Baby," 
** Angelina," " Temptation," " Breaking the Charm " and 
■" How Lucy Backslid."] 

See die pictyah in my han'F 

Dars my gal. 
Ain't she purty? Ooodnese lan'I 

Hnh name SaL 
Daf s de very way she he, — 
Kin' o' tickles me to see 
Huh smilin' back at me. 

She sont me dis photygraph 

JeG* las' week; 
An' aldongh hit made me laugh, 

My black cheek 
Felt aomethin' a-nmnin' queer — 
Bless yo' soul, it was a tear,-^ 
Jes' f'om wishin' she was here. 

Often when Z's all alone 

La^' here, 
I git t'mkin* 'bout my own 

Sallie dear; 
How she say I's hnh bean, 
An' hit tickles me to know 
Dat de girl do love me so. 

Some bright day I's goin' back, 

An', as sho'z my face is black, 

Ax huh pa 
Fn' de blessed little miss. 
Who's a smilin' ont o' dis 
Pictyah, lak she wan'ed a kiss. 


A Message to Garcia 

Extract from an article in the " Pbilistine," Marcli, 1899. 

W'lHBN war broke out between Spain and the 
I United States it was Terr neeesBary to com- 
I mnnicate quickly with the leader of the Instug- 

1 enta. Qarcia was somewhere in the moontaia 

I festneBses of Cuba — ^no one knew where. No 

I mail or telegraph message could reach him. 

The PresideDt must secure hie co-operation, and qoicklj. 

What to do! 

Some one said to the President, " There's a fellow by the 
name of Bowan will find Garcia for yon if anybody can." 
Rowan was sent for and given a letter to be delivered to 
Garcia. How "the fellow by the name of Eowan" took 
the letter, and sealed it up in an oilskiD pouch, strapped it 
over bis heart, in four days landed by nignt ofl the coast of 
Cuba from an open boat, disappeared into the jungle, and 
in three weeks came out on the other side of the island, 
having traversed the hostile country on foot, and delivered 
his letter to Garcia, are things I have no special desire now 
to tell in detail. 

The point I vrish to make is this: McKinley gave Bowan 
a letter to be delivered to Garciit ; Rowan took the letter and 
did not ask, " Where is he at? " By the Etemall There is 
a man whose form should be cast in deathless bronze and 
the statue placed in every college of the land. It is not 
book-learning young men need, nor instruction about this 
and that, but a stiffening of the vertebrse which will cause 
thero to be loyal to a trust, to act promptly, concentrate 
their energies; do the thing — " Carry a message to Garcia! " 

General Garcia is dead now, but there are other Garcias. 
No man who has endeavored to carry out an enterprise 
where many hands were needed but has been well-nigh 
appalled at times by the imbecility of the average man — 
the inability or unwillingness to concentrate on a thing and 
do it. Slip-shod assistance, foolish inattention, dowdy 
indifference and half-hearted work seem the rule; and no 
man succeeds, unless by hook or crook, or threat, he forces. 


Cbe grafter es 

or bribes other men to aeelBt him; or, maybap, God in His 
eoodnesB performs a miracle, and sends him an angel of 
light for an assistent. 

My heart goes out to the man who does his vork vhen 
the " boss " is away as well as when he is at home. The 
man who, when given a letter for Garcia, quietly takes the 
missiTe without asking any idiotic question, and with no 
lurking intention of chocking it into the nearest sewer, or 
of doing aught else but deliver it, never gets " laid off," nor 
has to go on strike for higher wages. Civilization is one 
long, anxious search for just such individuals. Anything 
Buch a man aska for shall be granted; his kind is ao rare 
that no employer can afford to let him go. He is wanted in 
every town, city and village — in every office, shop, store and 
factoiy. The world cries oat for such; he is needed, and 
needed badly — the man who can carry a message to Garcia. 



fFrom B^i King's Verse. Copyright, Forbes A Co., 

Oh, love ! Let ns love with a love that loves, 

Loving on with a love forever; 
For a love that lotes not the love it should love — 

I wot such a love will sever. 
But when two lovea love this lovable love, 

Love loves with a love that is best; 
And this love-loving, lovable, love-lasting love 

Loves on in pure love's loveliness. 

Oh, chide not the love when its lovey-love loves 

With lovable, loving caresses ; 
For one feels that the lovingest love love can love. 

Loves on in love's own lovelinesses. 
And love, when it does love, in secret should lore — 

Tie there that love most is admired ; 
Bnt the two lovey-loves that don't care where 
they love 

Make the public most mightily tired. 

:y Google 

70 Cfte ftpeakw 

The Fall of the House of Usher 


[Few of Foe's tales lend themselTee to recitation, bat a 
few like this one, " The TeU-Tale Heart," and some others, 
may be read successfollj by those wbo are experienced. 
Foe has a strange auccees in raising images of horror> con- 
veying to ns, as Lowell says, "sometimes by a dusky hint 
some terrible doubt, which is the secret of all horror; and 
then he leaves to the imagination the task of finishing the 
picture, a task of which the imagination alone is capable." 
There are many excellent editions of Foe's writings; the 
most complete, perhaps, is the Virginia edition, published 
by T. Y. Crowell & Co., New York.] 

UBiNQ the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless 
day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds 
hang oppressively low in the heavens, I had been 
passing alone, on horseback, through a singu- 
larly dreary tract of country; and at length 
found myself, as the shades of the evening drew 
on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know 
not how it was, but, with the first glimpse of the building, 
a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. There was 
an icinees, a sinking, a sickening of the heart, an unredeemed 
dreariness of thought, which no goading of the imagination 
conld torture into aught of the sublime. 

Nevertheless, in this mansion of gloom I now proposed 
to myself a sojourn of some weeks. 

Although as boys we had been even intimate associates, 
yet I really knew little of my friend. His reserve had been 
always excessive and habitual. When I again uplifted my 
eyes to the house itself from its image in the pool, there 
grew in my mind a strange fancy. 

Shaking off from my spirit what must have been a dream, 
I scanned more narrowly the real aspect of the building. 
Its principal feature seemed to be that of an excessive an- 
tiquity. The discoloration of ages had been great Minuts 



fungi orerspread the vhole exterior, hanging in a fine 
tangled web-vork from the eaves. Yet all this waa apart 
from any extraordinary dilapidation. No portion of the 
masonry had fallen ; and there appeared to be a vild incon- 
sistency between its still perfect adaptation of parts and 
the crumbling condition of the individual stones. 

Noticing ^ese things, I rode over a abort caoseway to 
the bouse. A servant in waiting took my borse, and I 
entered the Gothic archway of the hall. A valet, of stealthy 
step, thence conducted me in silence through many dark 
and intricate passages in my progress to the studio of his 
master. Much that I encountered on the way contributed, 
I know not bow, to heighten the vague sentiments of which 
I have already spoken. The valet now threw open a door 
and ushered me into tbe presence of bis master. 

Upon my entrance, Uwier rose from a sofa on which he 
had been lying at full length, and greeted me with a viva- 
cious warmth which had much in it, I at first thought, of an 
overdone cordiality. 

In tbe manner of my friend I was at once struck with an 
incoherence, an incoDsistency ; and I soon found this to 
arise from a series of feeble and futile struggles to over^ 
come an habitual trepidancy, an excessive nervous agita- 
tion. His voice varied rapi^y from a tremulous indecision 
to that species of energetic concision which may be ob- 
served in the lost drunkard, or tbe irreclaimable eater of 
opium, during the periods of his most intense excitement. 

It was thus that be spoke of the object of my visit, of bis 
earnest desire to see me, and of tbe solace he expected me 
to afford him. He suffered much from a morbid acuteneea 
of tbe senses; the most insipid food was alone endurable; 
he could wear only garments of certain texture ; tbe odors 
of all flowers were oppressive; his eyes were tortured by 
even a faint light; and there were but peculiar sounds, and 
these from stringed instruments, which did not inspire Mm 
with horror. 

To an anomalous species of terror I found him a bounden 
slave. " I shall perish," said he, " I must perish in this 
deplorable folly. In this uimerved, in this pitiable condi- 
tion, I feel that tbe period will sooner or later arrive when 
I mnst abandon life and reason together in some struggle 
with the grim phantasm. Pear.** 

I learned, moreover, at intervals, and through broken and 


rs Cbe ^eaket 

eqnirocal hinte, another sicgular feature of his mentil con- 
dition. He vaa enchained by certain Buperstitious im- 
preseions in regard to the dvelling vhich he tenanted, and 
whence for many years he had never ventured forth, in 
regard to an influence whose supposititious force was con- 
veyed in terms too shadowy here to be restated. 

He admitted, however, although with hesitation, that 
much of the peculiar gloom whii£ thus afBicted him could 
be traced to a more natural and far more palpable origin, 
— to the severe and long-continued illness, indeed to the 
evidently approaching dissolution, of a tenderly-beloved 
sister, hia sole companion for long years, hia last and only 
Felative on earth. " Her decease, he said, with a bitter- 
ness which I can never forget, " would leave him (him, the 
hopeless and the frail) the last of the ancient race of the 
Ushers." While he spoke, the lady Madeline (for so was 
she called) passed slowly through a remote portion of the 
apartment, and, without having noticed my presence, dis- 
appeared. I regarded her with an utter astonishment not 
unmingled with dread, and found it impossible to account 
for sudi feelings. A sensation of stupor oppressed me, as 
my eyes followed her retreating steps. When a door, at 
lei^^, closed upon her, my glance sought instinctively 
and eagerly the countenance of the brother; but he had 
buried bis face in his hands, and I could only perceive that 
a far more than ordinary wanness had overspread the ema- 
ciated fingers ttirongh which trickled many passionate 

The disease of the lady Madeline had long baffled the 
skill of her physicians. A settled apathy, a gradual wasting 
away of the person, and frequent, although transient, affec- 
tions of a partially cataleptical character, were the nnnsual 
diagnosis. On the closing-in of the evening of my arrival 
at the house she succumbed (as her brother told me at 
night with inexpressible agitation) to the prostrating power 
of the destroyer ; and I learned that the glimpse I had ob- ^ 
tained of her person would thus probably be the last 1 ' 
should obtain. 

For several days ensuing, her name was nnmentioned by 
either Usher or myself; and during this period I was busied 
in earnest endeavors to alleviate the melancholy of my 
friend. We painted and read together; or I listened, as if 
in a dream, to the wild improvisations of his speaking 


Cbe %peaftrr 73 

gnitar. And thus, as a closer and etill closer intimacy ad- 
mitted me more nnreservedly into the recesses of his spirit, 
the more bitterly did I perceive the futility of all attempt 
at cheering a mind from vhich darknees, as if en inherent 
positive quality, poured forth upon all objects of the moral 
and physical nniverse, in one unceasing radiation of gloom. 

One evening, having informed me ahruptlT that the lady 
Madeline vas no more, he stated his int^tion of preserv- 
ing her corpse for a fortnight, in one of the numerous vaults 
within the Fi^i" walls of the building. 

The bo^ having been encoffined, we two alone bore it to 
its rest The vault in which we placed it was small, damp, 
and entirely without means of admission for light. It had 
been used, apparently, in remote feudal times, for the worst 
purposes of a donjon-keep, and in later days as a place of 
deposit for powder, or some other highly combustible sub- 
stfiDce, as a portion of its floor, and me whole interior of a 
long archway through which we reached it, were carefully 
sheathed viui copper. The door, of massive iron, had been 
also similarly protected. Its immense weight caused an 
unusually sharp grating sound as it moved upon its hinges. 

Having deposited our mournful burden upon tressels 
within this region of horror, we screwed down the lid, and, 
having secured the door of iron, made our way, with toil, 
into Vie scarcely less gloomy apartments of the apper por- 
tion of the house. 

And now, some daya of bitter grief having elapsed, an 
observable change came over the features of the mental 
disorder of my friend. His ordinary manner had vanished. 
His ordinary occupations vrere neglected or forgotten. He 
roamed from chamber to chamber with hurried, unequal, 
and objectless step. The pallor of his countenance had 
assumed, if possible, a more ghastly hue, but the luminous- 
nesa of his eye had utterly gone out. I felt creeping upon 
me, by slow yet certain degrees, the wild influences of hia 
fantastic yet mipressive superstitions. 

It was, especially, upon retiring to bed late in the ni^t 
of the seventh or eighth day after the placing of the lady 
Madeline vrithin the donjon, that I experienced the full 
power of such feelings. Sleep came not near my coach, 
while the hours waned and waned away. An irrepressible 
tremor gradually pervaded my frame ; and at length there 
sat upon my very heart an incubus of utterly caueeless 


74 etie Weaker 

alann. Shaking tiiis off with a gasp and a stniggl^ I up- 
lifted myself ttpon the pillows, and, peering earnesUy 
witliiu the intense darkness of tiie chamber, hearkened — 
1 know not why, except that an instinctive spirit prompted 
me — ^to certain low and indefinite sounds which came, 
through the pauses of the storm, at long intervals, I knew 
not whence. Overpowered by an intense sentiment of 
horror, unaccountable yet unendurable, I threw on my 
clothes with haste, and endeavored to arouse mye^ from 
the pitiable condition into which I had fallen, by pacing 
rapidly to and fro through the apartment 

I had taken but few turns in this manner when a light 
step on an adjoining staircase arrested my attention. I 
presently recogni2ed it as that of Usher. In an instant 
afterward he rapped with a gentle tonch at my door, and 
mtered, bearing a lamp. His air appalled me — ^but any- 
thing was preferable to the solitude which I had so long 
endured, and I even welcomed his presence as a relief. 

"And you have not seen it?" he said, abruptly, after 
having stared about him for some moments in aileuce, — 
"you have not then seen it? — but, stay I you shall." Thus 
speaking, and having carefully shaded his lamp, he hurried 
to one of the casements, and threw it freely open to the 

The impetuous fury of the entering gust nearly lifted us 
from our feet A whirlwind had apparently collected its 
force in our vicinity, for there were frequent and violent 
alterations in the direction of the wind. But the under 
sm^acee of the huge masses of agitated vapor, as well as all 
terrestrial objects immediately around us, were glowing in 
the unnatorfj light of a faintly luminous and distinctly 
visible gaseous exhalation which hung about and 
enshroud^ the mansion. 

" You must not — ^you shall not behold this I " said I, shud- 
deringly, to Usher, as I led him with a gentle violence from 
the window to a seat. " Let us close tlm casement; the air 
is chiUing and dangerous to your frame. Here is one of 
your favorite romances. I will read, and you shall listen ; 
—end BO we will pass away this terrible night together." 

The antique volume which I had taken up was the " Mad 
Trist " of Sir Launcelot Canning. 

I had arrived at that well-known portion of the story 
where Ethelred, the h»o of the Trist, having sought in vais 


for peaceable admisBiou into tfae dwelling of the hermit, 
proceede to make good an entrance by force. 

At the termination of a sentence I started, and for a 
moment paused; for it appeared to me that from some very 
r^note portion of the manaion &ere came, indistinctly, to 
my eais, what might have been in its exact similarity of 
clmracter the echo of the very cracking and ripping sound 
which Sir Lanncelot had ao particularly described. It was, 
beyond donbt, the coincidence aloue which had arrested my 
attention ; for, amid the rattling of the sashes of the case- 
ments, and the ordinary commingled noises of the still in- 
creasing storm, the sonnd, in itself, had nothing, surely, 
which &ould have interested or disturbed me. I continued 
the story. 

Again I paused abruptly, and now with a feeling of wild 
amazement, for there could be no doubt whatever that, in 
this instance, I did actually hear a low and apparently dis- 
tant, but harsh, protracted, and most unusual screaming or 
grating sound. 

From a position fronting my own. Usher had gradually 
brought round his chair, so as to sit with hJB face to the 
door of the chamber; and thus I could but partially per- 
ceive his features, although I saw that his lips trembled as 
if he were murmuring inaudibly. His head had dropped 
upon his breast ; yet I Knew that he was not asleep, from the 
wide and rigid opening of the eye as I caught a glance of it 
in profile. I resumed the narrative of Sir Launcelot. 

Suddenly, as if a shield of brass had at the moment fallen 
heavily upon the floor of silver, I became aware of a dis- 
tinct, hollow, metallic, and clangorous, yet apparently mof- 
fled reverberation. Completely unnerved, I leaped to my 
feet; but the measured rocking movement of Usher was un- 
disturbed. I mahed to the chair in which he sat. His eyes 
were bent fixedly before him, and throughout his whole 
countenance there reigned a stony rigidity. But, as I placed 
my hand upon bis fioulder, there came a strong shudder 
over his whole person ; a sickly smile quivered about his lips, 
and I saw that he spoke in a low, hurried, and gibbering 
murmur, as if onconscioua of my presence. Bending closely 
over him, I at length drank in the hideous import of hia 

"Not hear it? — ^yes, I hear it, and have heard it. Long 
— ^long — ^loDg — ^many minutes, many hours, many day* 


76 ci)e ^ealtet 

have I heard it, yet I d&red not — oh, pity nie, miflerable 
wretch that I am! — ^I d&red not — I dared not speak I We 
hare put her living in the tomb ! Said I not that my senses 
were acute? I now tell yon that I heard her first feeble 
movements in the hollow coffin. I heard them — ^many, 
many days ago — yet I dared not — I dared not speak I And 
now — to-night — Ethelred — ^ha! ha! — the breakmg of the 
hennifa door, and the death-cry of the dragon, and the 
clangor of the shield — say, rather, the rending of her coffin, 
and the grating of the iron hinges of her prison, and her 
struggles within the coppered archway of tiie vault! Oh, 
whitiier shall I fly ? Will she not be here ason F Is she not 
hurrying to upbraid me for my haste? Have I not heard 
her footstep on the stair P Do I not distinguish that hear? 
and horrible beating of her heart P Uadman I " — ^here he 
sprang furiously to his feet, and shrieked out his syllables, 
as if in the effort he were gi^ng up his soul — " Madman I I 
tellyou that she now stan^ wimout the door I " 

TfbB huge antique panels to which the speaker pointed 
threw slowly back, upon &e instant, their ponderous and 
ebony jaws. It was the work of the rushing gust — but then 
without those doors there did stand me lofty and 
eoshronded figure of the lady Madeline of Usher I There 
was blood upon her white robes, and the evidence of some 
bitter struggle upon ever?' portion of her emaciated frame. 
For a moment eke remained trembling and reeling to and 
fro upon the threshold — ^then, with a low moaning cry, fell 
heavily inward upon the person of her brother, and, in her 
violent and now fatal death agonies, bore him to the floor a 
corpse, and a victim to the terrors he had anticipated. 

From that chamber and from &at mansion I fled aghast. 
Suddenly there shot along the path a wild light; the vast 
house and its shadows were alone behind me. While I 
gazed there came a fierce breath of the whirlwind — ^my 
brain reeled as I saw the mighty walls rashing asunder — 
there was a long, tumultuous shouting sound like the voice 
of a thousand waters — and the deep and dank tarn at my 
feet closed sullenly and silently over the fragments of the 
" House of Usher." 


Nini, Ninette, Ninon 


LOTS three m&idens gay and bright, 

Nini, Ninette, Ninon. 
I vorship them by day and night, 

Nini, Ninette, Ninon, 
Nini is timid as a flower; 
Ninette, she dance from hour to hour ; 
Ninon, she big aa one big tower; 

Nini, Ninette, Ninon. 
Hilat! Uon Dieu, what ehall I do? 
I cannot marry all of yon, 
Mes petites clUriea. Que voulet^ouat 

Nini, Ninette, Ninon. 

Whea I met them yeeterdajr, 

Nini, Ninette, Ninon. 
I cannot many yoa, I say, 

Nini, Ninette, Ninon. 
Nini, she weep— -ia pavvre chine. 
Ninette, she stamp her foot at me. 
Why have yoa fall in lore with three? 

Nini, Ninette, Ninon. 
Mes petites chiriet. Que voulet-voust 
Was bonnd to fall in love with yoo, 
Yoa all BO aweet^ what ooald I do P 

Nini, Ninette, Ninon. 

Ninon, she neither stamp nor ciy, 

The great, the grande Ninon. 
She look at me with both her eye, 

The bie, the large Ninon. 
Allont! she say, be quick, prepare; 
Ton have to marry me, mon cher. 
What could I say! I laug^; I stars. 

Nini, Ninette, Ninon. 
Mais, non, Ninon ; that cannot be. 
I not divide myself, you see, 
I lore Uie one, the two, the three, 

Nini, Ninette Ninon. 


78 cDe ftpeaket 

With Any Amazement 

Prom " Ite Story of the Gadsbye." 

[Beaden find mnch in the Btoriee end poemB of Kipling 
that makes excellent recitations. In " The Story of the 
GadebyB," the Macmillan Company, New York (price 
$1.25), there are at least three chapters that read well in 
public, " Poor, Dear Mamma," " The Valley of the Shadow," 
and the chapter presented below. — Editobs.] 

A bachelor's bedroom. Captain Gadaby 
and snoring heavily. Time, 10.30 a.m. 
^loriona autumn day at Simla. Enter 
ily Captain Mafflin, of Qadsby's raiment, 
at sleeper and shakes his head, munnnr- 
Poor Gaddy." Performs violent fantasia 
with bair-bruahes on chair-back. 

Capt. M. — Wake up, my sleeping beautyl (Boars.) 
" Fprouse ye, then, my merry, merry men I 
It is our opening day! 
It is our opening da-ay t " 
Gaddy, the little dicky-birds have been billing and cooing 
for ever so long; and I am here! 

Capt. 0. (sitting np and yawning), — ^'Momin'. This is 
awfly good of you, old fellow. Most awfly good of you. 
Don't toow what I should do without you. 'Pon my soul, 
I don't Haven't slept a wink all night. 

Capt. M, — I didn't get in till h^-past eleven. Had a 
look at you then, and you seemed to be sleeping as soundly 
as a condemned criminal. 

Capt. G. — Jack, if you want to make those disgusting 
vom-out jokes, you'd better go away. (With portentous 
gravity.) Ifs the happiest day in my life. 

Capt. M. (chuckling grimly.) — Not by a very long chalk, 
my son. You're going through some of the most refined 
torture you've ever known. But be calm. I am with yon. 
'Shonl Dress! 
Capt. G.— Ehl Wha^? 


die ftpeabet ?» 

Capt. ii. — Do you euppoBe that you are your own master 
for the next twelve hours? If you do, of conise — (Makes 
for the door.) 

Capt. Q. — No I For goodness sake, old man, don't do 
that! You'll see me through, won't youP I've been mug- 
git^ up that beastly drill, and can't remember a line of it 

Capt. M. (overhaaling G.'s uniform). — Go and tub. Don't 
bother me. I'll give you ten minutes to dress in. 

Capt. 0. (emerging from the dressing-room). — What time 
18 it? 

Capt. M. — ^Time to come for a walk. Light up. 

Capt. G. — Any chance of seeing Her? 

Capt. ii. — Innocent! No! Come along, and, if you want 
me for the final obsequies, don't cut my eye out with your 

Capt. 0. (spinning round). — I say, isn't She the dearest 
creature that ever walked ? Whaf s the time ? What comes 
after "Wilt thou take this woman"? 

Capt M. — You go for the ring. R'cleet ifll be on the 
top of my right-hand little finger, and just be careful how 
you draw it off, because I shall have the verger's fees some- 
where in my glove. 

Capt. 0. (walking forward hastily). — Hang the vergerl 
C<Hne along I Ifs past twelve, and I haven't seen Her since 
yesterday evening. (Spinning round again.) She's an abao- 
Inte angel, Jack, and She's a dashed deal too good for me. 
Look here ; does She come up the aisle on my arm, or how P 

Capt. M. — If I thought that there was the least chance of 

?niT remembering anything for two consecutive minutes, 
d tell you. 

Capt G. — ^Whaf s the time ? How about that cursed wed- 
disg-cake and the slippers ? They don't throw 'em about in 
church, do they? 

Capt. M. — In-variab]y. The padre leads off wifli hie 

Capt. G. — Confound your silly soul! Don't make fun of 
me. I can't stand it, and I won't. (Penitently.) I know, I 
know. Jack — but I'm as upset as I can be. Don't mind 
what I say. Just hear me run through the drill and see if 
Pve got it all right: — 

" To have and to hold for better or for worse, as it was in 
ttie beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end, 
•o help me, Ood. Amen." 


80 ctie ^eaftet 

Capt. M. (saffocatmg with sappresBed laughter). — Yat. 

Thatrs about the gist of it. I'll prompt if you get into a hat 

Capt. 0. (earnestly). — ^You'll stick by me, Jack, won't 

Jon? I'm avf'ly happy, but I doa't mind telling yoa that 
"m in a blue funk. 

Capt. M. (gravely). — Are you? I should never have 
noticed it You don't look like it. 

Capt. C— Don't I? Thafs all right. (Spinning round.) 
On my soul and honor. Jack, She's the sweetest little angel 
that ever came down from the sky. There isn't a woman on 
earth fit to speak to Her. 

Capt. M. (aside). — And this is old Gaddyl (Aloud.) Qo 
on, if it relieves you. 

Capt. G. — You can lau^ I Thafs all you wild asses of 
bachelors are fit for, 

Capt. M. (drawling). — Ton never would wait for the 
troop to come up. You aren't quite married yet, yTmow. 

Capt. 0. — ^TTgit I That reminds me. I don't believe I shall 
be able to get into my boots. Let's go home and try 'em 
on I (Hurries forward.) 

Capt. M. — Wouldn't be in your shoes for anything that 
Asia has to offer. 

Capt. Q. (spinning round). — That just shows your hid- 
eous Dlacknesa of soul— your dense stnpidHy— your brutal 
narrow-mindedneeB. There's only one fault about you. 
You're the best of good fellows, and I don't know wlmt I 
should have done without you, but — you arrai't married. 
(Wags his head gravely.) '^e a wife. Jack. 

Capt. M. {wim a face like a wall.) — ^Ya-as. Whose for 

Capt. 0. — ^If you're going to be a blackguard, I'm going 
on. Whaifs the time? 

Capt. M. (hums). — 

" An' since 'twas very clear we drank only ginger-beer. 
Faith, ^ere must ha' been some stingo in the ginger." 

C<ane back, you maniac. I'm going to take you nome, 
and you're going to lie down. 

Capt. 0. — It's absurd. I shan't sleep. I know I shan't 
(Falb into a heavy doze at end of seven minutes. Capt. M. 
watches him tenderly.) 

Capt. M. — Poor old Gaddy! I've seen a few tamed off 
before, but never one who went to the gallows in this con- 
dition. Can't tell how it affects 'era, though. If s the thor- 


Ct)e ^eaket si 

onghbreds fiiAt sveet when they'ra backed into donbleJiar- 
nesB. And that* b the man who went ihrough the gang at 
AnilwhitTt like a deril poeaessed of devils. (Leans over Q.) 
Bat this is woree than the g^uuB, old pal — worse than the 
gnns, isn't itF (Q. turns in his sleep, and M. toaches him 
^nmsily on the forehead.) Poor, d^ old GaddjI Going 
like the rest of '^n — going like the rest of 'em. Friend that 
sticketh closer than a brother, eight years. Dashed bit of a 
aUp of a girl, eight weeks I And — Where's your friend? 
(Smokes disconsolately till charch clock etrikes three.) 

Capt. M. — Up with yon I Get into your kit 

Capt. G.— Afready? Isn't it too soon? Hadn't I better 
have a shave? 

Capi.M.—So\ You're all right (Aside.) He'd chip his 
chin to pieces. 

Capt. 0.— Whaf B the hurry ? 

Capt. M. — ^You've got to be there first 

Capt. O.— To be stared at? 

Capt. M. — Exactly. You're part of the show. 

Wapt. 0. dressea. if, foUowa snit) 

Capt. M. (critically, walking round.) — ^H'yes, yonll do. 
Only don't look bo like a crmiinal. Ring, gloves, fees — 
tha^B all rif^t for me. Let jonr mustache alone. Now, it 
the ponies are ready, wVll so. 

Capt. 0. (nervously). — Irs much too soon. Let^s light 
up I Let's have a peg! Let's — 

Capt. M. — There go the bells I Come on — unless you'd 
rather not (They nde off.) 

Capt. Q. (dismounting at the door of ^e church. — I sav, 
aren't we much too soon? There are no end of people 
inside. I say, aren't we much too late ? Stick by me, Jack t 
What the devil do I do? 

Capt. a. — Strike an attitude at the head of the aisle and 
wait for Her. (0. groans as M. wheels him into position ' 
before three hundred ^es.) 

Capt. M. (imploringly). — Gaddy, if you love me, for pib^s 
sake, for the Honor of the Regiment, stand npl Chuck 
youraelf into your uniform ! Look like a man 1 I've got to 
speak to the padre a minute, ( 0. breaks into a gentle per- 
■pimtion,) if you wipe your face I'll never be your best 
man again. Stand np I (0. trembles visibly. ) 

Oop?. M. (returning), — She's coming now. Look out 
iriien the music starts. There's the organ beginning to 


82 Cite ^eaitet 

(Bride steps ont of 'rickshaw at clmrch door. Q. catches 
a glimpse of ner and takes hearL) 

Capt. M. (watching 0.) Bjr Jove t He is looking welL 
Didn t tiiink he had it in him. 

Capt. 0. — How long does this bymn go on for? 

Capt. M. — It will te over directly. (Amioualj.) Begin- 
ning to bleach and gulp ? Hold on, Qaddy, and think o' the 

Capt. 0. (measured!;). — I sa;, there's a big, brown lizard 
crawung up that wall. 

Capt. it.—lAj Sainted Ifotherl The last stage of col- 

(Bride comes np to the left of altar, lifts her ejea once 
to 0., who is suddenly smitten mad.) 

Capt. 0. (to himself again and again). — ^Little Featiier- 
weight's a woman — a woman I And I thought she was a 
UtUe girL 

Capt. M. (in a whisper). — Form the halt; inward wheeL 

{Capt. 0. fibeya mechanically, and the ceremony pro- 

Padre. — . . . only unto her as long as ye both shall lire. 

Capt. 0. (his throat nselees). — Ha-nmmml 

Capt. 3^.— Say you will or you won't There's no second 
deal here. 

(Bride gives response with perfect coolness, and is given 
away by the father.) 

(fapt. 0. (thinking to show his learning.) — Jack, gne me 
away now, quick I 

Capt. M. — ^Ton're given yourself away quite enough. Her 
right hand, man I Bepeat I Bepeat " Theodore Philip." 
Have you forgotten your own name? 

(Capt. 0. stumbles through afSrmation, which bride 
rq>eatB without a tremor.) 

(7api. If .—Now the ring I Follow the Padre ! Don't pull 
off my glove 1 Here it is ! Great Cupid, he's found his 

(G. repeats troth in a voice to be heard to the end of the 
church, and tuniB on his heels.) 

Capt. M. (desperately). — Beinback! Back to your troop t 
"Tisn't half legal yet. 

Padre. — . . . joined together let no man put asunder. 

(Capt. 0., paralyzed with fear, jibs after blessing.) 

Capt. M. (quickly). — On yoor own front — one length. 


Take lira with you. I don't come. YouVe nothing to eaj. 
{Capt. G. jingles up to altar.) 

Capt, jf. (in a piercing rattle meant to be a whisper).— 
Ened, 70a stiS-necked ruman t Kneel I 

Padre. — . . . whose danghters are ye bo long ae ye do 
well and are sot afraid with any amazement. 

Capt. M.—Dismiasl Break off! Left wheel I 

(dJl troop to vestry. They sign.) 

Capt. M. — Kiflfl her, Gaddy. 

Capt. O. (rubbing the ink into his glove.) — ^Eh ! Wha-at? 

Capt, M. (taking one pace to bride). — If yon dont, I shalL 

Capt. 0. (interposing an arm.) — Not this joomeyl (Oen- 
eral kissing.) 

Capt.0. (faintly to JIf.). — This is Hadee. Canlwipemy 
face now? 

Capt. M. — ^My responsibility has ended. Better aak Missis 

One, Two, Three * 


[Many of the poems of " In Aready," by H. C. Bnnner, 
hare the charm of this one. The volume is published by 
Charles Scribner's Sons, New York.] 

It was an old, old, old, old lady, 
And a boy who was half -past three 

And the way that they played together 
Was beautiful to see. 

She couldn't go numing and jumping. 

And the boy no more could he. 
For he was a thin little fellow, 

With a thin, little twisted knee. 

They eat in the yellow sunlight 

Out under the maple tree ; 
And die game they played 111 tell you. 

Just as it was told to me. 

•riom''FMaiofB.CBaitD«r." CoprTl3bt,lSS4,lSM,brCh*itMegfnB«I'iSaM, 


cue ^ealtet 

It wu Hide and Go-Seek they -wen playing, 
Though you'd never hare Imown it to b^— 

With an old, old, old, old lady 
And a boy with a twisted Imee. 

Hw boy would bend his face down 
On his one little sound right knee, 

And he'd goees where she was hidings 
In guesses, One, Two, Three I 

" You are in Hhe china closet I " 
He would ciy and laugh with gle^— 

It wasn't tlie china closet; 

But be still had Two and Three: 

* Too are ap in papa's big bed-room. 
In the chest with the queer old key I " 

And she said : " You are ioarm and wormsr. 
But you're not quite rights" said she. 

" It can't be the little cupboard. 
Where mamma's things used to be — 

So it most be the clothes-press, gran-ma I " 
And he foond her with his Taiee. 

Then she covered her face with her fingers, 
Itiat were wrinkled, and white, and wee, 

And she guessed where the boy was hiding 
Witli a One and a Two and a Three. 

And they nerer had stirred from their places. 

Bight under the maple tree — 
Iliie old, old, old, old lady 

And the boy with the lame little knee, 
Hiis dear, dear, dear old lady, 

And the boy that was half-past three. 


Ctt Svtaket 

Mr. Dooley, oa the Grip 

[Few writers have bo commanded the attention of tiis 
public as has Finle; Peter Dunne, whose Mr. Doole; is a 
continual delight. Many of the sketches in this rolnme, 
"Mr. Dooley in the Hearts of His Oountrymeu " (Small, 
Maynard & Co., Boston), make successful readings.] 

M' %B. DooLET was discovered making a seasonable 

I beverage, consisting of one part syrup, two 
I parts quinine, and fifteen parts strong waters. 
" Whafs the matter? " asked Mr. McKenna. 
" I have th' lah gr-rip," said Mr, Dooley, 

' blowing his nose and wiping his eyes. " Bad 

s to iti Oh, me poor back! I feels as if a dhray had run 
over it. Did ye iver have it? Ye did not? Well, ye're 
lucky. Ye're a lucky man. 

" I wint to McGuire's wake las' week. They gave him a 
dacint sind-ofl. No porther. An' himsilf looked natural, 
as fine a corpse as iver Gavin layed out. Gavin tould me so 
himsilf. He was as proud iv McGuire as if he owned him. 
Fetched half th' town in to look at him, an' give ivry wan 
iv thim cards. He near frightened ol' man Dugan into a 
faint. 'Miather Dugan, how old a-are ye?' ' Sivinty-five, 
thanks be,' says Dugan. ' Thin,* says Gavin, ' take wan iv 
me cards,' he says. ' I hope ye'll not forget me,' he says. 

" 'Twas there I got th' lah grip. Lastewise, it la me own 
opinion iv it, though th' docthor said I swallowed a bug. 
It don't seem right, Jawn, f r th' McQuiree is a dane fam^y; 
but th' docthor said a bug got into me system. ' What sort 
iv bug? ' says I. ' A lah grip bug,' he says. * Ye have Mick- 
robes in ye're lungs,' he says. 'Whafs thimP* says I. 
' Thim's th' lah grip bugs,' says he. ' Ye took wan in, an* 
warmed it,' he says, ' an' it has growed an' multiplied till 
ye're system does be full iv thim,' he says, * millions iv 
thim,' ne says, ' marchin' an' countermarchin' through ye.' 
' Qlory be to the saints! ' says I. ' Had I better swallow 
some insect powdher ? ' I says. ' Some iv thim in me head 
has a fallin' out, an' is throwin' bricks.' ' Foolish maD,' 

• OoiiTTl^tAd br Small, Uajurd * Ob., IBM. 


•ays he. ' Qo to bed/ he says, ' an' l&ve thim alone,' he says, 
* whin they find who they're ia/ he says, ' theyTl quit ye.' 

" So I wint to bed, an' waited while th' Mickrobes had 
fan with me. Monday all iv thim was quite but thim in me 
Btummick. They stayed up late dhrinlun' an' caronsiu' an' 
dancin' jiga till wurrada come up between th' Kerry Mick- 
robea an' thim fr'm Wexford; an th' whole party wmt over 
to me left lung, where tbey cud get th' air, an' had it out. 
Th' nez' day th' little Uackrobes made a toboggan slide It 
me spine; an' mane time some Hickrobes that was workin' 
fr th' tilliphone comp'ny got it in their heads that me legs 
was poles, an' put on their spikes an' climbed all night long. 

" They was tired out th' nex" day till about five o'clo«, 
whin thuu that was in me bead begin flushin' out th' rooms; 
an' I knew there was goin' to be doin's in th' top flat What 
did thim Miclcrobes do but invite all th' other Mickrobes in 
f r th' eVnin', They all come. Oh, by gar, they was not 
wan iv thim stayed away. At six o'dock they began to 
move from me shins to me throat. They come in pUtoons 
an' squads an' dhroves. Some iv thim brought along brass 
bands, an' more thin wan hundred thousand It thim dhmv 
through me pipes on dhrays. A throUey line was started 
up me back, an' ir'ry car run into a wagon-load It scrap iron 
at th' base iy me skull. 

" Th' Mickrobes in me head must 'ye done thimsilTes 
proud. They tipped over th' chairs an' tables; an', in less 
time thin it takes to tell, th' whole party was at it. They'd 
been a hurlia' game in th' back iv me skull, an' th' young 
folks was dancin' breakdowns an' bavin' leppin' matches in 
me forehead; but they all stopped to mix in. Oh, 'twaa a 
grand shindig — tin millions iv men, women, an' childber 
rowlin' on th' flure, hands an' feet goin', ice-picks an' 
hurlin' sticks, clubs, brick-bats, flyin' in th' airl How many 
iv thim was kilt I never knew; fr I wint as daft as a hen, 
an' dhreamt iv organizin' a Mickrobe Campaign Club thafd 
sweep th' prim'ries, an' maybe go acrost an' free Ireland. 
Whin I woke up, me legs was as weak as a day-old baby's, 
an' me poor head imp^ as a cobbler's purse. I want no 
more iv thim. Give me any bug fr'm a cockroach to an 
aygle, save an' excipt thim West It Irdand Fenians, the 


die ^eaftei s? 

The Rhyme of the Duchess 


(Arraoged b; Maude Herndon.) 

Broad the forest stood od the hills of Linteged — 
And three hvmdred years bad Blood mute adovu each hoaiy 
Like a full heart having prayed. 

There, the castle stood up black, with the red aim at ita 

back, — 
like a sulleu, smouldering pyre, with a top that fiickers fire, 
Wheu the wind is on its ^ack. 

And five hundred archers tall did besiege the castle wall. 
And the castle, seethed in blood, fourteen &ys and nights had 
And to-night was near its fall. 

Tet thereunto, blind to doom, three months since, a bride 

did come, — 
One who proudly trod the floors, and softly whispered in the 

" May good angels bless our home." 

Twas a Duke's fair orphan-girl, and her uncle's ward, the 

Who betrothed her, twelve years old, for the sake of dowry 

To his son. Lord Leigh, the chorl. 

But what time she had made good all her years of woman- 
Unto both those Lords of Ijeigh, spake she out right soTranlj 
" My will runneth as my blood. 

" And while this same blood makes red this same right 

hand's veins," she said, — 
" 'Tis my will as lady free not to wed a Lord of Leigh, 
But Sir Guy of Linteged." 


88 €^t %9taUt 

Thes the joaag lord jerked his breath, and sware Uiickly in 

hia teeth, 
" He vould wed hia ovn betrothed, an ahe loved him, an ahe 
Let the life come or the death." 

Up she rose with scornful eyea, as her father's child might 

*' Thf hooud's blood, my Lord of Leigh, stains thy knightly 

heel," quoth she, 
" And he moans not where he lies. 

" Bnt a woman's will dies hard, in the hall or on the sward t 
By that grave, my lords, which made me orphaned girl and 
dowered lady, 
I deny you wife and ward." 

TTnto each she bowed her head, and swept past with lofty 

Ere the midnight-bell had ceased, in the chapel had the 

Blessed her, bride of Linteged. 

Fast and fain the bridal train along the night-storm rode 

Hard the steeds of lord and serf struck their hoofs out on 

the turf, 
Li the pauses of the rain. 

And the bridegroom led the flight on his red-roan steed of 

And the bride lay on his arm, still, as if she feared no harm. 
Smiling out into the night. 

** Doet thou fear? " he said at last. " Nay! " she answered 

him in haste, — 
*' Not such death as we could find — only life with one 

behind — 
Bide on fast as fear — ride fasti " 

Up the moimtain wheeled the steed — girth to ground, and 

fetlocks spread, — 
Headlong bounds, and rocking flanks, — down he staggered, 

down the banks, 
To the tower of Linteged. 


Cbe %peaker &» 

On the steed she dropt her cheek, kissed his mane and 

kissed his neck, — 
** I bad happier died by thee, than lived on a Lady Ijeigh." 
Were the first Tords she did speak. 

Bat a three mooths* joyaace lay 'twizt that moment and 

When fire hundred archers tall stand beside the castle wall. 
To recapture Duchess Hay. 

And the castle standeth black, vith the red siin at its back, — 
And a fortnight's siege is done — and, except the Duchess, 
Oan nusdonbt the coming wrack. 

Hen the captain, young Lord Leigh, with his eyes so gray 

of blee 
And thin lips that scarcely sheath the cold, white gnashing 

of his teeth, 
Qnashed in amiling, absently. 

Cried alond — " So goes the day, bridegroom fair of Dachess 

Ijook thy last upon that sun. If thon seest to-morrow's one, 
Twill be through a foot of day. 

" Ha, fair bridel Dost hear no sound, sare that moaning of 

the hound? — 
Hon and I have parted troth, — ^yet I keep my Tengeanc« 

And the other may come round. 

"Peck on blindly, netted dovel — if a wife^s name thee 

Thou shalt wear the same to-morrow, ere the grave has hid 

the sorrow 
Of thy last ill-mated lore." 

0, and laughed the Duchess May, and her soul did put awmy 
All hu boasting, for a jest. 

In her chamber did she sit, laughing low to think of it, — 
" Tower is strong and will is free — thon canst boast, my 
Lord of Leigh, 
Bnt thou boastest little wit" 


90 cbe Weaker 

On the tower the castle'a lord leant in silence on bia Bword, 
With an Bnguiah in his breast. 

With a Bpirit-Iaden weight, did he lean down paesionate. 
They have almost snapped the wall, — ^they will enter there 
With Qo knocking at the gate. 

Then the sword he leant upon, shi-rered — snapped npon the 

stone, — 
" Sword," he thought, with inward laugh, " ill thou aervest 

for a staff 
When thy nobler use is donel 

" Fire true friends lie for my sake — in the moat and in the 

brake, — 
Thirteen warriors He at rest, with a black wound in the 

And not one of thee will wake. 

" Since young Clare a mother hath, and yovmg Balph a 

plighted faith, 
Since my pale young sister's cheeks blush like rose when 

Ronald speaks, 
Albeit never a word she saith — 

" These shall never die for me — life-blood falls too heavfly: 
And if I die here apart, — o'er my dead and silent heart 
They sh^! pass out safe and free." 

All these silent thoughts did swim o'er his eyes grown 

strange and dim,' — 
Till his true men in the place wished they stood there face 
to face 
With the foe instead of him, 

" One last boon, young Balph and Clarel Faithful hearts 

to do and dare I 
Bring that steed ap from his stall, which she kissed before 

you all; 
Quide him up the turret stair." 


Ctie %peaker 9i 

Then liis men looked to and fro, when they heard him 

epeakiDg so, — 
— ^"'Last the noble heart," they thought, — " he in Booth is 

grief -distraught. 
Would we stood here with the f oel " 

But a fire fioshed from hie eye, 'twizt their thought and 

their reply, — 
" Have ^e so much time to waetel We who ride here must 

nde fast. 
As we wish our foes to fly." 

Th(7 have fetched the steed with care, in the harness he 

did wear. 
Past the court and through the doors, across the rushes of 

the floors; 
But they goad him Dp the stair. 

" Then from out her bower chamber did the Duchess May 

" Tell me now what is your need," said the lady, " of this 

That yon goad him up the stair? " 

Calm she stood; unbodkined through, fell her dark hair to 

her shoe, — 
And the smile upon her face, ere she left the tiring-glass, 
Had not time enough to go. 

**Get thee hack, sweet Dnchess Majl llopo is gone like 

yesterday, — 
One haJf-hour completes the breach; and thy lord grows 

wild of speech. 
Get thee in, sweet lady, and pray. 

" In the east tower, high'st of all, — loud he cries for steed 

from stall. 
*He would ride as far,' qnoth he, *as for lore and Tictoiy, 
^Ilumgh he rides the castle wall.' 


98 ct)e ^peakec 

** And ve fetch the eteed from stall, up where oerer hoof 

did faU,— 
Wifely prayer meets deathly need I May the sweet Heavena 

hear thee plead, 
If he rides the castle walL" 

Low she dropt her head, and lower, till her hair coiled on 

the floor, — ■ 
And tear after tear yon heard fall distinct as any word 
Which yon might be Ustentng for. 

Then she stood in bitter case, with a pale yet stately face, 
Like a statue thunderstruck, which, though quiTering> 
seems to look 
Bight against the thunder-place. 

Then the good steed's reins she took, and his neck did kiss 

and stroke; 
Soft he neighed to answer her; and then followed up the 

For the love of her sweet look. 

Oh, and steeply, steeply wound up the narrow stair 

Oh, and closely speeding, step by step beside her treading. 
Did he follow meek as hound. 

On the east tower, high'st of all, — there, where neyer a hoof 

did faU,— 
Out they swept, a vision steady, — a noble steed and lovely 

Calm ae if in bower or stalll 

Down she knelt at her lord's knee, and she looked up 

silently, — 
And he kissed her twice and thrice, for that look witiiin 
her eyes 
Which he could not bear to see. 

Quoth he, " Oet thee from this strife, — and the sweet sainte 

bless thy lifet — 
In this hour I stand in need of my noble red-roan steed-^ 
But no more of my noble wife." 


Qooth ahe, "Keeblj have I done all ibj biddings under son: 
Bat by &11 my womanhood, — which is proved ao true and 
I will never do this one. 

" So the sweet saints with me be " (did she utter soleomly). 
" If a man, this eventide, on bis castle wail will ride. 
He shall ride the same with me." 

Oh, be nirang up in the selle, and laughed out bitter well, — 
" Wouldst thou ride among the leaves, as we used on other 
To hear chime a vesper bell? " 

She clang doeer to his knee — ^"Aj, beueath the cypress treel 
Hock me sot; for other where than along the green-wood 
Have I ridden fast with thee I " 

Twice he wrung her hands in twain; but the small hands 

closed again. 
Back he reined the steed — ^back, backl But she trailed 
along his track 
With a frantic clasp and strain t 

Evermore the foemen pour through the crash of window 

and door, — 
And the shouts of Leigh and Leigh, and the sluiekB of 

"Mill" and "fieel" 
Strike up clear amid the roar. 

^Hirice he wrung her hands in twain,— Itnt they dosed and 

clung wain, — 
She clung wild and she clung mute, — with her shaddering 

lipa half shut. 

Bock he reined his steed, back-thrown on the slippery 

Bock the irou hoofs did grind on the battlement behind. 
Whence a hundred feet went down. 

And his heel did press and goad on the qaivering flank 

*'IViendB and brothers, save my wifel — ^Faidon, sweet, in 

change for life, — 
But I nde alone to Ood." 


9i die ^eaket 

straight as if the Holy Nome had onbreatbed her lilc* a 

She upspiang, she rose upright, — in his selle she sat in 
Bj her love she overcame. 

And her head was on his breast, where she smiled as one at 

rest, — 
" Bing," she cried, " vesper-bell, in the beach-wood's old 

Bat the passing bell rings best." 

They have caught oat at the rein, which Sir On; threw 

loose — in vain, 
For the horse in stark despair, with his front hoofs poised 

in air. 
On the last verge rears amain. 

Now he hangs, he rocks between — and his nostrils curdle 

in, — 
And he shivers head and hoof — and the flakes of foam fall 

And hie face grows fierce and thin! 

And a look of human woe from his staring eyes did go, 
And a sharp cry uttered he, in a foretold agony 
Of the headlong death below, — 

And ** Hing, ring, thou passing bell," still she cried, " i' the 

old diapelte! — " 
Then back-toppling, crushing back, a dead weight flimg out 
to wrack, 
Horee and riders overfelU 

On His Seventy-Fifth Birthday 

I atrove with none; for none was worth my strife. 
Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art; 

I warmed both hands before the fire of life, 
It dnks, and I am ready to depart. 

— Walter Savage Landor. 


The Elocutionist's Curfew 


[A clerer parody is a rare delight This one from 
Harper'a Magazine for December] 1906, is one of the beet 
of recent times. " Carfev Shall Xot fiing To-night," b; 
Boee Hartwick Thorpe, has been i^nsed by elocutionary non- 
sense more, perhaps, than any other poem.] 

England's snn was slowly setting — (Raise your right hand 

to yonr brow). 
Filling all the land with beauty — (Wear a gaze of rapture 

now) ; 
And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden 

(With a movement slow and graceful, you may now push 

back your hair) ; 
He with sad, bowed head — (A drooping of your head will 

be all right, 
Till yon hoaisely, sadly whisper) " Curfew must not ring 


" Sexton." Bessie's white lips faltered — (Try here to resem- 
ble Bess, 

Though of course you know she'd never worn quite such a 
charming drees), 

" I've a lover in that prison — (Don't forget to roll your r's 

And to shiver as though gazing through the iron prison 

" Cromwell will not come till sunset " — (Speak each word as 
though you'd bite 

Every syllable to pieces) — " Curfew must not ring to-night" 

"Bessie," calmly spoke the aeiton — (Here extend your 

velvet palm. 
Let it tremble like tiie sexton's as though striving to be 

* Long, long y'ars I've rung the curfew " — (Don't forget 

to make it y'ars, 


96 die apeakei; 

With a pitiful inflection that a irorld of Borroir bean) . 

" I haye done my duty ever " — (Drair joorself up to joor 

For you're speaking as the sexton) — " Qyurl, the curfew 

rings to-night I" 

Out she swung, far out — (Now here is where you've got to- 
do your best; 

Ijet your head be twisted backward, let great sobs heave up- 
your cheet ; 

Swing your right foot through an arc of ninety lineal de- 

llien come down and swing your left foot, and be sure don't- 
bend your knees ; 

Seep ihis up for fifteen minutes till your face is worn and 

Tben gaze at your mangled fingers) — ^^ Curfew shall not 
ring to-nightl" 

O'er the distant hills came Cromwell — (Right hand to the- 

brow once more; 
Let yoor ^ea look down the distance, say above the entrance' 

At his foot she told her stoty — (Lift your hands as thoo^ 

they hurt). 
And her sweet young face so haggard — (Kow your patlioa- 

yon assert. 
Then you strai^ten up as Cromwdl, and be sure yon get it 

Dont say, " Go, yoor liver loves I ") — ^well, " Curfew duU. 

not ring to-ni^tt" 



vl^^'^ ^"^ volume was first planned it was the in- 
^A^ tention of ihe editors to gather together the 
yfyf Belectiona which had been prize-winnera in ool- 
ite and high school declamation contests. Re- 
ports were obtained from leading schools, but 
when the list of the prize-winnere was made it 
was fonnd to consist of the names of trite and well-worn 
nombers which may be found in many familiar collectione. 
This discovery snggested two things : ^t, that it wonid be a 
grataitone service to reprint these hackneyed selections ; sec- 
ond, that there is a demand for fresh material for contest 
nombera. It is not in our province to discuss the edncational 
valne of the contest We are compiling literature suitable 
for readings, and, accepting the contest as it is, we have tried 
to make a useful book — a book containing powerful, dramatic 
scenes in gr^hic, pictoresqoe laognage, with 
Foiewuid characterization that captures the hearer's 

sympathy and imagination. To the contestant 
who is seekiDg for a prize-winner written in acceptable and 
TigorouB English, with some literary form and style, we offer 
this little book. So far ae possible we have drawn from orig- 
inal sources. To Miss Theodora Irvine and to Miss Boie 
McNevin grateful acknowledgment is made for the use of 
selectionB of their arrangement. With these exceptions, the 
arrangementa and introductionB are by the Editors. 

The title of this volume saggeets that it is prepared for the 
Th AttrU amateur reader, one who has been chosen for 
bittM of a *^® contest because he haa shown a taste and 
Sntcwsfnl * ^°™ ^°^ *^* "^"''^ ' ^^^ ^^^ ™'"* **■* ^°^ "**" 
Vnmber tered it or used it professionally. It is not 

amiss, therefore, to sn^eet to such an one 
some of the attributes of a succeaaful contest number. 
• * « 

First, it should be good literature. The costeetant nsnally 
worim for weeks on his selection. It is memorized and re- 
peated conntlees times, and the form and s^Ie cannot fail to 


96 ctie Speaker 

make a lasting impresaion. TheD titere is mncli pleasure to 
be gained, and much greater chance of snccees in the final 
test from sotnethin? that retains ite freshness to the imagin- 
ation, — something that is permanently satis^ing. The words 
Shonld Bo of a great critic of antiquity, often quoted in 
Good litera- another connection, make a good standard by 
tun which to jadge a selection. He says : " If a 

person find that a performance transports not his soul nor 
exalts not his thoughts ; that it calls not up into his mind 
ideas more enlarged than the mere sounds of the words con- 
vey ; but on attentive examination its dignity lessens and de- 
clines, he may conclude that whatever pierces no deeper than 
the ears can never be the true sublime." The selection which 
pierces no deeper than the ears, which yields up all its mean- 
ing readily, becomes dead lumber, clogging and hindering the 
brain, while the masterpiece grows in meaning as experience 
widens the appreciation. When Macready had played 
Hamlet for the last time he took off the velvet mantle he 
shonld never wear again, and, laying it aside, he muttered, 
" Oood-night, sweet Prince " ; then he tnmed to a friend and 
said, " I am just banning to realize the sweetness, the ten- 
derness, the gentleness of this dear Hamlet " and this afta 
a lifetime of study on the r61e. 

The contest nnmber must have a worthy theme. Whatever 
we may think of the profeesional's right to choice of ma- 
Shonld Have terial, the student whose taste and character 
a Worthy are forming should choose for such intimate 
Tbeaie study only the good, the true, the beautiful. 

Whatever else the selection says, it should say, and v 

" God's in His heaven — 
All's right with the world." 

In the ejection of material it is well to note that the least 
effective literature for recitation is the descriptive and didac- 
Stylea Hoot tic s^les and pure narrative ; that is, a mere 
ESectm for record of events. That which is written in nar- 
Redtatlon rative form, but abounds in dialogue, is always 
effective. Homer was a successf nl platform ariist ; he nnd^ 
stood perfectly the requirements of a popular public reading, 
Uld he introduced his actors at every opportunity, ^'Initing 


the iiarrati?e part aa mach as poaaible. Another treasure- 
store for the reader is found in the drama and the dramatic 
monologue, literature which represents events as paseiog in 
our sight, where the characters speak and act for themse^es, 
and tmilling events are presented, not for their own soke, but 
for the efiect on the homan soul. 
• * * 
A socceesful number for the average contestant is a good 
etory, lannched on a strong initial wave of interest, and mov- 
ing logically and snrelj to a good climax ; the story in which 
A Ssccewful the actors are heard speaking, with now and 
Hnmber for then a drop of the curtain, that the reader may 
the Avenge tell what is necessary for us to know in ordco- 
Contestant to free the theme from entangling and confus- 
ing relatione and to enable us to discern the mental and moral 
processes which cause the dialogue. The story should be 
fresh, the plot of general interest, and the intention obvious. 
If the material be so fresh to the student that he bring to it 
no preconceived idea as to how it should be read ; if he de- 
scend not to copy another's interpretation, that worst possible 
use of his time and his gifts, this vehicle will furnish even the 
amateur with an opportunity for valuable expression work. 

The French speak of " creating a part," and even the poet 
himself hails with applause the actor with the aensibUity and 
imagination to interpret, because he knows all his efforts 
would be neutralized by artificial or stupid reading. Indeed, 
-^^v- °°t infrequently the poet has been surprised to 

Readlne ^^^^ ^'^ "^"^ production as it came through the 

personality of one whose imagination gave him 
wings to soar even nearer to the source of truth and beauty. 
Emerson says, " There is creative reading as well as creative 
writing." Let this be made the ideal toward which the stu- 
dent is urged to struggle, and dethrone from that high place 
artifice and artificiality. Let the idea no longer prevail that 
to win distinction it is necessary to toll like a bell, bark like 
a dc^, scream like a parrot, or buzz like a sawmill. A re- 
quirement in a contest number is that it shall hold and enter- 
tain, bot if it is to represent the work of an educational insti- 
tation, it shoald be at heart sincere, intense and earnest 

And now let us make a suggestion as to the best way to 
use the book. When you have made your choice, go to the 


100 Cbe %peaktc 

original source and read tjie entire story carefollj. Indeed, 
it is impossible to know the exact meaning to he expressed 
without familiarity with the original. The abridgments 
— herein contained are valuable because thej 
This Book ^^^ '^^° made in obedience to the laws of 
dramatic presentation, and because they are a 
result of actual platfonn experience. In many cases the 
matter of pages is condensed into a single paragraph. It ts 
obvious that back of the reading of that paragraph should be 
the meaning of the pages. It is not intended, either, that 
there should be a serrile following of these abridgment. It 
would be better if the student could make his own arrange- 
ments, but since Uiat requires some experience of actual plat- 
form work, it is legitimate to use these cuttings. 
« « » 
The editors realize that the influence of the contest itself 
and of this publication will be ephemeral enough unless, from 
his preparation, the student gains a deeper insight into the 
Tains of the ™l*tion of the printed page to life, and is in- 
Tocal Inter- spired to a serious study of the vocal inte^ 
pretxaoa of pretation of literature. In the curriculum of 
literature our schools there is no study which appeals 
more directly to the creative imagination— that 
faculty which is moat worth educating, — that faculty which 
makes man meet like God. Many schemes of education seem 
to be based upon the assumption that the imagination ought 
to be repressed rather than cultivated ; that it is the unde- 
sirable, unpractical quality which unfits one for actual lite', 
whereas it is in actual life that the need of a cultivated 
imaginatioa is most real. It is the soul of Art, of Religion, 
of all things spiritual. It is as essential to practical success, 
for it is the quality that distinguishes the great general, in- 
ventor, explorer, financier. It is impossible to conceive of 
any work not the merest drudgery in which success is not pro- 
portioned to the quality of imagination. It is of the greatest 
miportance, too, as a social quality. Much of the harshness, 
suspicion, cruel distrust and misery of life is the result of 
the commonplace egotism which is unable to see things from 
another's st^dpoint. The blind selfishness and cruel fanati- 
cism of the world come less from unkindness of heart than 
from lack of imagination. " For we sin against our dearest 
not because we So not lore them, but because ve do not 

""*^™^' laABSL Garohill Bbbohbb. 


Ctie ^peattet loi 

The Sign of the Cross* 


(By eowieoua permiaaion of the puiiiskers, J. B. Lippin- 
cott Company, Philadelphia.} 

[Another very dramatic scene will be found in chapter 
eleren, which deals with the secret meeting of the Christiana, 
the attack upon them b; the Roman soldiers under Tigel- 
linus, and the rescue of Mercia by Marcos. The entire book 
might be condensed into a powerful reading.] 

^w^^^T was a festival da; in Borne. Nero had decreed 
Mrl ▼ it In ihe Circna was to be giren a performance 
SI M ^^ ^i^^ '^^ which had never before been wit- 
S SP^iw nessed. The whole city was excited by Uie 
QlSmt) rumors of the numbers of Christians doomed 
SSS^mF to die, and of the ferocity of the beasts they were 
to encounter. 

The dungeon beneath the amphitheater in which die Chris- 
tians were imprisoned was a large, gloomy stone vault, desti- 
tute of furniture of any kind. 

Qreat was the contrast between Uie dark, dank cell and the 
sunlit arena, crowded with eager, gaily-dressed patricians. 
In the dnngeon were scores of men and women waiting for 
the signal to pass forth to a certain and cruel death; in the 
auditorium was a seething mass of humanity, thousands upon 
thousands impatienUy awaiting their coming forth, and 
gloating already in imagination upon the horrors they most 

The roots of the hungry beasts could be faintly heard, even 
when the doors were closed ; eo could the equally merciless 
howls of the bloodthirsty populace. How they were to die 
had not been told the martyrs; only this they knew, that 
thqr were to die, and that every endeavor would be made 
to make their deaths as horrible, revolting and cruel as pos- 

Among them were s few that trembled and felt sick with 
physical fear, but not one mormured. Their eyes were men- 

• Copjil^t, br J. B. Upplnaatt Oa, 


102 ctie ^ealtec 

tally fixed upon the Croes; aod His angaish, His BuSeringa, 
His endnrance for their sakee was their courage, their hope, 
their strength. wondrous faith I glorious belief ! Fore- 
runners of freedom, founders of civilization, and of a relig- 
ion destined to endure unto the end of all things earthly were 
these despised, lowly people, who in their martyrdom made 
the world wonder what conld this faith be that gave sucJi 
endarauce and brought such peace. 

Again there was a loud call of the trumpets. The doors 
were thrown open, and the arena beyond could be seen by the 
prisoners, flooded with golden sunshine. 

" Now, then, march ! " 

For a moment there was a pause, bat almost before it could 
be realized Mercia's clear, sweet voice rang out the first worda 
of their beloved hymn : 

" Shepherd of souls that stumble by the way, 
Pilot of vessels storm-toesed in the night, 
Healer of wounds, for help to Thee we pray ; 
Guide Thou our footsteps, send the morning li^t 
Oh, lead ns home ! " 

Singing these words wiUi uplifted ^es and nndannted 
hearts, those noble mar^rrs went calmly and resignedly 
through the dark Valley of the Shadow of Death to the erer- 
lasting peace that awaited them beyond. 

Mercia, a beautiful girl, was left alone in the dungeon. 
It was generally understood that Marcus Snperbns, the hand- 
some, wealthy young Prefect of Bome, was madly in love 
with the Christian girl, and the adventuress who hoped 
to entrap Uarcua prevailed upon Nero to make her punish- 
ment unique and horrible. 

She sank upon ber knees, with her face pressed against 
the iron doors. Presently lie door leading to ihe corridor 
was unbarred. Two oflBcers entered, ushering in Marcus, who 
started on finding Mercia alone. DismiBsing the guards, he 
closed the door, gazing wilh infinite tenderness at the white 
fignre kneeling at the gates. Mercia, lost in thou^t, had 
not heard him enter. 

For a time Marcus conld not speak; his heart felt like 
bursting with grief for this beautiful girl. Here in this 
loathsome dungeon, she could still preserve her courage and 
could still pray for forgivenees for her persecutors. 

** Mercia I Mercia!" 


CDe ^peattet 103 

Then, slowly she rose, as one awakening from a dream, and 
lotted anmnd her. 

" Wliat would yon with me ? " 

" I came to save thee. I have knelt to Neio for thj par- 
don. He will grant it npon one condition — that thou dost 
renounce thy f aJse worship — " 

" It is not false ! It is true and everlasting ! " 

" Ererlasting? Nothing is everlasting ! There is no after- 
life ; the end is here. Men come and go ; they drink their 
little cup of woe' or happiness, and then sleep — the sleep that 
knows no awakening." 

" Alt thou BO sure of that ? Ask thyself, are there no 
inward monitors that silently teach thee there is a life to 

" All men have wishes for a life to com^ if it could better 

" It will better this, if this life be well lived. Hast thoa 
lived weU?" 

" No; thou hast tau^t me that I -aewet knew the ehame 
of sin until I knew thy purity. Ah ! whence comes thy won- 
drous grace ? " 

" If I have any grace, it comes from Him who died on 
Calvary's Gross that grace might come to all." 

" Ihou dost believe thia? " 

" I do believe it" 

" But tfaoo hast no proof." 

" Yes," replied Mercia, placing her band upon her heart 
" The proof is here." 

" Oh I thoa dost believe so ? All men, all nations have 
their gods. This one bows down to a thing of stone, and calls 
it his god ; another to the sun, and calls it his god. A god 
of brass — a god of gold — a god of wood ! Eadi tella hmt- 
self kis is the true god. All are mistaken." 

" All these are mistaken." 

" And thou ? What is thy God ? A fantasy — a vision — 
a Bupeistition. Wilt thou die for such a thing?" 

" I will die for my Master gladly," 

" Mercia, hear me ! Thou abalt not die I I cannot let thee 
go t I love thee so I I love thee so I" 

" Thoa hast told me so before, and wonldst have slain thy 
nml and mine." 

" I grant it. I did not know. I was blind t TSow I see 
my love for thee is love indeed. The brute is dead in me; 


104 CDs %pe&ktt 

the man is liviog. Thy purity, that I would have Bmirched, 
hath cleansed me. LiTe, Mercia ! Live and be my wile 1 " 

Uercia was deeply moved. The man she loved with her 
whole heart loved her, and with a revereuce and devotion 
that were beyond question deep and sincere. 

" Thy wife ? thy wife I Oh, Marcus, Marcus ! I know not 
how or whence it came, but love came for thee when first 1 
saw thee." 

" Mercia t " 

" Nay; stay where thou art, Marcos, and hear me. This 
love I speak of came, I knew not whence, nor how, then ; now 
I know it came from Him who gave me life. I receive it joy- 
fully because He gave it. Think you He gave it to tempt me 
to betray Him P Nay, Marcus ; He gave it to me to.nphold 
and strengthen me. I will be true to Him." 

"Thou wilt live?" 

" I will not deny Him who died for me." 

" Mercia, if thy Qod exists. He made us both, the one for 
the other. Hearken I I am rich beyond riches. I have power, 
skill, strength ; with these the world would be my slave, my 
vassal. Nero is hated, loathed — is tottering on his throne. 
I have friends in plenty who would help me — the throne of 
Cassar might be mine — and thou shalt share it with me if 
thou wilt but live. The crown of an Empress shall deck that 
lovely head if thou wilt but live — only consent to live ! " 

" My crown is not of earth, Marcus ; it awaits me there." 

" I cannot part from thee and live, Mercia ! I have, to 
save thy precious life, argued and spoken against thy faith, 
thy God, but to speak truth to thee, I have been sorely trou- 
bled since I first saw thee. Strange yearnings of the spirit 
come in the lonely watches of the night; I battle with them, 
but they will not yield. I tremble with strange fear, strange 
thoughts, strange hopes. If thy faith be true, what is this 
world? — a little tarrying-place, a tiny bridge between two 
vast eternities, that from wbidi we have traveled, that to- 
wards which we go. Oh, but to know I How can I know, 
Mercia ? Teach me how to .know ! " 

•- " Look to the Cross, andrp'ray,'*Help Thon my unbelief 1 ' 
Give up all that thou hast,'and follow HimI " 

"Would He welcome even me?" 

"Yea, even thee, Marcos." 

Now Hieie sounded on their ears another call fnmt the 


€.\te ^fieakxt 105 

trumpets. The brazen doors slid back, the guards entered, 
followed this time b; TigeUinus. 

" Prefect, the hour is come. Cssar would have this maid's 
decision. Doth she lenouuce Christas and live, or cling to 
Him and die ? " 

" Mercia I Answer I " 

" I cling to Him and die. Farewell, Marcus I " 

" Farewell ? No, not ' Farewell.' Death cannot part ns. 
I, too, am read; I My lingering doubts are dead ; tiie light 
hath come I Return to Ctesar; tell him Christus hath tri- 
umphed. Marcus, too, is a Christian I " 

His face shone with the same glorious radiance that had 
transfigured the features of Mercia. They were glorified by 
the presence of Him who had promised to them, even as He 
had promised to the penitent thief, dying on the Cross beside 

" Yerily I say unto thee, io-morrow shalt thou be with me 
in FaradiBe." 

My Heart Leaps Up When I Behold 

My heart leaps up when I behold 

A rainbow in the sky : 
So was it when my lite began; 
So is it now I am a man ; 
So be it when I shall grow old, 

Or let me die ! 
The Child is father of the Man ; 
And I conld vriah my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 



loe Cbe %titaktt 

"Gentlemen, The King!"* 


[This splmdld etory, one of the best from the pen of a 
irriter who is always interestiDg, originally appeared in 
" McClure'a Magazine." It was afterward included in a 
book of short stories by Robert Bsrr, entitled, " A Prince 
of Good Fellows," published by McClore, Phillips & Com- 
pany, New York, by whose penniBsion the following catting 
is reprodaced.] 

K a rong^ hnnting-lodge in the wildemees, 
twelve leagues from the capital of Alloria, 
twenty men were gathered in groups around a 
large oaken table. These men, nobles of the 
realm, were met on this exceedingly tempestu- 
ous night to dificuas the removal of the king, 
by force, if necessary. A wild storm was raging without, 
when suddenly there came three stout raps upon the door, 
given apparently with the hilt of a sword. The knocking 
was repeated, accompanied by the words : 

" Open the door I Open peacefully and do not put me to 
the necessity of forcing it. 

Count S^um undid the fastenings and threw open the 
door. There entered a tall man completely enveloped in 
a dark coat that was dripping wet. Drawn over his eves 
was a hunter's bat of felt, with a drooping, hedraggled 
feather on it The door was immediately closed and bamd, 
and the stranger, pausing a moment when confronted by 
so many inquiring eyes, flung off his cloak, throwing it over 
the back of the clwir ; then he r«noved his hat with a sweep, 
sending the rain drops flying. The intriguers gazed at him 
speechless. They saw before th^n his Majes^, Budolph, 
Aing of Allurial 

If the King had any suspicion of his danger, he gave no 

token of it. On his smooth, lofty fordiead there was no 

trace of frown and no sign of fear. His frank, clear, hon- 

eat eyes swept the company, resting momentarily on each ; 

• copT'Unt It HoCtan, Fun^ a C0BpM7. 


Ctie ^eabec lo? 

then he said in a firm voice without the euspicion of a 
tremor in it, " Oentlemeo, I give you good erening ; and if 
Count Staum will act as cupbearer, we will drown all re- 
membrance of a barred door in a flagon of wine, for, to fell 
the truth, gentlemen, I have ridden hard in order to have the 
pleasure of drinking with you." 

Count Staum presented the brimming flagon, and Ru- 
dolph held aloft his beaker of Burgundy. " Qentlemen, 
I give you a suitable toast. May none here gathered en- 
counter a more pitiless storm than tiiat whi^ is raging 
without I My lord of BruufelB, I see I have interrupted 
yoa at your old pleasure of dicing. While requesting you 
to continae your game as though I had not joined you, may 
I rentore to hope that the stakes you play for are not high ? " 

" Your Majesty," said Baron BrunfeU, " the stakes are 
the hi^est that a gambler may play for." 

"You tempt me. Baron, to guess that the hazard ia a 
man's soul ; but I see that your adversary is my worthy ex- 
chancellor, and, as I should hesitate to impute to him the 
character of the devil, I am led, therefore, to the conclusion 
that you play for a human life. Whose life is in the cast, 
my iJord of Bnmfels ? " 

Before the Baron could reply, Ex-Chancellor Steinmetz 
rose wi^ some indecision to his feet. 

" I beg your gracious permission to explain the reason 
of our gathering " 

" Herr Steinmetz," cried \he king, sternly, " when I de- 
sire your interference I shall call for it; and remember 
this, Herr Steinmetz, the maQ who begins a game most play 
it to the end, evea though he finds luck running against 

" Your Majesty," said Baron Bnmfels, " I speak not for 
my comrades, but for myself. I be^ no game I am afraid 
to finish. We were about to dice in order to discover whether 
your Majesty should live or die." A simultaneous moan 
seemed to rise from the assembled traitors. The smile re- 
tamed to the King's lips. 

" Baron," he said, " I have ever abided myself for loving 
yoa. Even when your overbearing, obstinate intolerance 
compelled me to demise yon from the command of my 
army, I could not but admire your sturdy honesty. But 
we have bad enough of comedy, and now tragedy seta in. 
Why am I here? Why do two hoodred armed men sur- 


108 ctie ^eafcet 

round this doomed chalet? Miserable vretches, iriiat hare 
;on to eay that judgment be not instantly passed upon 


" I have this to sa;," roared Baron Bmnfela, " that what- 
ever may befall this aesembtage, you at least shall not live 
to boast of it" 

The King stood unmoved as the Baron was about to rush 
upon him, but Count Staum and others threv themselves be- 
tween the Baron and his victim. 

" My Lord of Bninfels," said the King, " sheath your 
sword. Your ancestors have often drawn it, but always 
for and never against, the occupants of the throne. Now, 
gentlemen, hear my decision and abide faithfully by it. 
Seat yonrselves at uie table, ten on each side, the dice-boz 
between yon. You shall not be disappointed, bat shall play 
out your ^me of life and death. Each dices with his 
opposite. He who throws the highest number escapes. He 
who throws the lowest, places his weapons on the empty 
chair, and stands against yonder wall to be shot for the 
traitor that he is. Thus half of your company shall live, 
and the other half shall seek death with such courage as 
may be granted them. Do you agree, or shall I give the 
signal? Come, Baron, you and my devoted ex-chancellor 
were about to play when I came in. Begin the game." 

Steinmetz, whose shivering fingers relieved him of the 
necessity of shaking the dice-box, upon losing to Bmnfels, 
drew hM sword to resist, but was speedily overpowered and 
bound, and the fearfnl contest was carried on in silence. 
A shade of sadness seemed to overspread the countenance 
of the EJng as the unsuccessful contestants ranged them- 
eelves against the wall. Baron Bmnfela was the first to 

" Your Majesty," he said, " I am always loath to see a 
coward die. The whimperings of your former chancellor 
annoy me ; therefore will I gladly teke his place, and give 
to him life and liberty, if, in exchange, I have the privilege 
of speaking my mind regarding you and your precious king- 

" Unbind the valiant Steinmetz," said the King. " Speak 
your mind freely. Baron Bmnfels." 

« Your Majesty, backed by brute force, has condemned to 
death ten of your subjects. You have branded ua as trai- 
tors, and such we are; and so find no fault with your senr 


Clie %ptsktt 109 

tence. You have reminded me that my aucestore fought 
for jours, and they never tamed their ewords against their 
eovereign. Why, then, have our swords been pointed towards 
yoar breast? Because, King Rndolph, you yoorself are 
a traitor. Yon belong to the ruling class and nave turned 
your back upon your order. You have shorn nobility of its 
privil^ea, and for what?" 

"And for what?" said the King. "For this I That the 
plowman on the plain may reap what he has sown ; that the 
shepherd on the hillside may enjoy tiie increase which 
comes to his flock; that taxation may be light; that my 
nobles Hhnll deal honestly with the people, and not use their 
position for thieving and depredation ; that those whom the 
State honors by appointing to positions of trust shall con- 
tent themselves with the recompense lawfully given and re- 
frain from peculation; that peace and security shall rest 
on the land, and that bloodthirsty swashbucklers shall not 
go up and down the land exciting the people to carnage and 
rapine, under the name of patriotism ; that the kingdom of 
Alluria may attend to its own affairs and meddle not with 
the concerns of others 1 This is the task I set myself when 
I came to the throne ! What fault have you to find with 
the, program, my Lord Baron? " 

" The simple fault that it is the program of a fool," re- 
plied the Baron; "In following it yon have gained the 
resentment of your nobles and have not even received the 
thanks of th<»e pitiable hinds, the plowmen in valley, or 
the shntherds on the hillside. You are hated in cot and 
castle uike. You would not stand in your place for a mo- 
ment, were not an army behind you. Being a fool, you 
think the common people like honesty, whereas they only 
curse that they have not a share in ttie thieving. What 
care they for rectitude of government ? They see no farther 
than the shining florin tQat glitters in their palm. And 
now, Rudolph of Alluria, I have done, and I go the more 
jauntily to my death that I have had fair speech with yon 
before the end." 

When the King looked up his eyes were veiled with 

"I thou^t," he said, "until to-night, that I had pos- 
sessed some qualities, at least, of a ruler of men. I came 
here alone among you, and, although there are brave men 
in this ccanpany, yet I had ihe ordering of events as I chose 


110 ciie ^eaitei 

to order them. I still reoture to tMnk th&t whaterer 
failures have attended my eight ;eais' rule in Alluria aroae 
from faults of my own, and not through imperfectiona 
in the plan or want of appreciation in the people. I beg to 
acquaint yon with the fact that my capital is in poeaession 
of the factions, who are industriously slitting each other's 
throats to settle which one of two smooth-tongued rascals 
shall be their president. While you were dicing to settle 
the fate of an already deposed Kmg, and I was sentencing 
yon to a mythical death, we were all alike being involved in 
a common min, I have no horsemen at my oack, and so 
I b^ of Count Stanm another flagon of wine, and either 
a place of shelter for my patient horse, who has been left 
too long in the storm without, or else direction towards the 
frontier, whereupon my horse and I will set out to find it" 

" Not towards the frootier ! " cried Baron Bmnf els, 
grasping his sword and holding it aloft, " but towards the 
capital." Each man sprang to his weapon and brandished 
it above his head, while a ringing cheer echoed to the tim- 
bered ceiling. 

" Hie King ' The King ! " 

Budolph smiled and shook his head. " Not bo," he eaid. 
" I leave a thankless throne with a joy I find it impossible 
to express. Whether the insurrection has bron^t free- 
d<an to themselves or not, the future alone will tdl ; but it 
has, at least, brought freedom to me. I now belong to my- 
self. No man can question either my motives nor my acts. 
Gentlemen, drink with me to the new President of ^uria, 
whoever he may be." 

But the King drank alone, none other Taising flagon to 

Then Baron Bmnfels cried aloud : " Gentlemen, the 

And never in the hiatoiy of Allnria was a toast so heartily 


The Only Way 

(From " A TeUe of Two Cities.") 

\i a. chance, Charles EvremoBde and Sydnqr Car- 

Bl ton discover that they are the exact connterparta 
I of each other. The chance givee Carton an op- 
^ portunity to befriend Erremonde in a dire strait, 
I for which he wins the lifelong gratitude of Evre- 

I monde and of Lucie Manette, his affianced wife, 

whom Carton has long loved m Becret In roite of the fact 
that Carton is an idle, diesolnte dog, incapable of the higher 
flights of men, he is welcomed to uie Evremonde home and 
befriended, and often the poor, miserable fellow cried out to 
the night, " Qod bless her for her sweet compassion 1 " 

In tiie terrible days of the French Bevolution Evremonde 
wae arrested and condemned to death. He was in his cell 
waiting for the dawn of the last day of bis life, when a key 
was put in the lock and turned. The door was quickly 
opened and closed, and there stood before him, face to face, 
quiet, intent upon him, with the li^t of a smile on bis fea- 
^res and a cautionary finger on his lipe, Sydney Carton. 

" I bring you a request from her — a most earnest, pressing, 
and emphatic entreaty, addressed to you in the most pathetic 
tones of the voice so dear to you, that you well remember. 
You have no time to ask me why I bring it or what it means. 
I have no time to tell you." Carton, pressing forward with 
the speed of lightning, got Evremonde down in a chair. 
" Take off those boots you wear and draw on these of mine. 
Change that crarat for this of mine ; that coat for this of 
mine ; shake your hair out like this of mine." With wonder- 
ful quickness he forced these changes upon him. 

" Carton ! Dear Carton I It is madness. It cannot be 
accomplished. It never can be done; it has been attempted, 
and has always failed. I implore you cot to add yonr death 
to the bitterness of mine." 

" Do I ask yon to pass the door F When I aek that, refuse. 
There are pen and ink. Is your hand steady enough to write 7 
Quick, friend, cniick I " 

Presaing his nand to his bewildred head, Evremonde sat 
down at the table. Carton, with his right hand in his breast, 


112 cue ftpeafcn 

stood close beside him. " Write exactly as I speak. If yoa 
remranber/' said Carton, dictating, " Uie wort^ that passed 
behreen us long ago, yon will readily comprehend this when 
yon flee it." 

" Is tiiat a weapon io yoar hand. Carton? " 

" No. Write on ; there are but a few words more." He 
dictated again : " I am thankful that the time has come when 
I can prove them." The pen dropped. "What vapor is 

" I am conscious of nothing. Take up the pen and finish. 
Hurry, hurry ! " 

The prisoner looked at Carton with clouded eyes and an 
altered manner of breathing, then bent over the paper onco 

"If it had been otherwise" — Carton's hand was again 
watchfully and softly stealing down. " If it had been ouier- 
wifle, — " The hand was close to his mouth. The prisoner 
sprang up with a reproachful look, but Carton's band was 
close and firm at his nostrils, and Carton's left arm caught 
him round the waiet For a few minutes Evremonde faintly 
struggled with the man who had come to lay down his life 
for him ; but within a minate or so he was stretched iosenflible 
on the ground, and when he returned to consciouBnes he was 
far on the way toward England; and Sydney Carton had 
fonnd a use and a meaning for hia poor wasted life. 

" Greater lore no man hath than this that he lay down his 
life for his friend." 

Along the Paris streets the death carts rumble, hollow and 
harsh. Six tumbrils carry the day's wine to La Gaillotine. 

There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the 
tumbrils, and faces are often turned up to them to ask some 
question. The horsemen, with their swords, point out one 
man in the third car. Then the cries arise, " Down, Evre- 
monde! To the guillotine all aristocrate. Down, Evre- 
monde ! " The leading curiosity is to know which is he ; he 
stands at the back of the tumbril, with his head bent down 
to converse with a mere girl who sits on the side of the cart 
and holds his hand. It is a poor, weak little seamstress, ab- 
surdly charged by the revolutionists with being conoemed 
in a plot against the republic 

As the last thing on e&rtii that his heart was to warm and 
soften to, it warmed and softened te this pitiable girl. 

" you wUl let me hold your brave hand, strainer? " 

" Hush 1 Yea, my poor sister ; to the last" 


The clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrOT 
ploiigbed among the popalace ia turoing round to come on 
ioto the place of execution, and end. The ridgee thrown to 
this side and to that now cramble in and close behind the 
last plough as it passes on, for all are following to the guillo- 
tine. Iq front of it, seated in chairs as in a garden of public 
divereion, are a number of women, busil; knitting. 

The tumbrils begin to discharge their loads. The min- 
iaters of Sainte Guillotine are robed and ready. Crash ! — 
a head is held up, and the knitting women, who scarcely 
lifted their eyes to look at it a moment ago, when it could 
think and speak, count " one." 

The second tumbrU empties and moves on ; the third comes 
up. Crash I — And the knitting-women, never faltering or 
pausing in their work, count " twelve." The supposed Evre- 
monde descends, and the seamstress is lifted oat next after 
him. He has not relinquished her patient hand in getting 
out, but still holds it as ne promised. 

" But for yon, dear stranger, I should not be as compoeed, 
for I am naturally a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor 
should I have been able to raise my thought to Him, who was 
put to death that we might have hope and comfort here to- 
day. I think you are sent to me by Heaven," 

" Or you to me," says Sydney Carton. " Keep you eyes 
upon me, dear child, and mmd no other object." 

" I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall mind 
nothing when I let it go, if they are rapid." 

" They will be rapid. Fear not." 

"Ami to kiss you now? Is the moment come?" 


She kisses his lips ; he kisses hers ; they solemnly bless each 
other. The spare hand does not tremble as he releases it; 
nothing worse than a sweet, bright constancy is in the patient 
face, ^e goes next before him — ^is gone ; the knltting-WDmen 
count " tirenty-two." And now his hour has come. 

" It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever 
done ; it is a far, far better rest tiiat I go to than I have ever 

" I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord ; he 
that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live ; 
and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die." 

The murmuring of many voices, the upturning of many 
&Ges, and ibe knitting-women count " twenty-three." 


Ill ClK ftpeahet 

The New Americanism 


[The following after-dinner oration wae delirered at ilie 
annoal meeting of the New England Socielj, in Nev York 
cit;, December 2M, 1894. The New York Tribune of the 
following day contains the fnll address.] 

En^^^^iaHT years ago to-night there stood where I am 
I Btsnding now, a young Georgian, who, not with- 
I out reason, recognized the "significance" of 

■ ^ hia presence here, and in words whose eloquence 

I cannot hope to recall, appealed from the New 
' South to New England for a united country. 
He is gone now. But, short as his life was, its heaven- 
bom mission was fulfilled; the dream of his childhood was 
realized; for he had been appointed by God to carry a mes- 
sage of peace on earth, good will to men, and this done, he 
vanished from the sight of mortal eyes, even as the dove from 
the ark. 

Orady told ns, and told us truly, of that typical American, 
who, in Dr. Talmage's mind's ^e, was coming, but who, m 
Abraham Lincoln's actuality, had already come. In some 
recent studies into the career of that man I have encountered 
many startling confirmations of this judgment; and from 
that rugged trunk, drawing ite sustenance from gnarled 
roots, interlocked with Cavalier sprays and Puritan branches 
deep beneath the soil, shall spring, is springing, a shapely 
tree, symmetric in all its parts — under whose sheltering 
boughs this nation shall have the new birfh of freedom 
Lincoln promised it, and mankind the refuge which waa 
sought by the forefathers when they fled from oppression. 
Thuik Ehd, the axe, the gibbet, and the stake have had their 
day. They have gone, let us hope, to keep company with the 
lost arts. It has been demonstrated that great wrongs may 
■ be redressed and great reforms be achieved without the shed- 
ding of one drop of human blood; that vengeance does not 
punfy, but bm^izes; and that tolerance, which in private 
transactions is reckoned a virtue, becomes in public affairs a 
dogma of the most far-seeing statesmanship. 


Cfje speaker us 

So I appeal from the men in silken hoee vho danced to 
mnfiic made by slaves — and called it freedom — from the men 
in bell-crowned hats, who led Heater Frynne to her shame — 
and called it religion — to that Americanism which reaches 
forth its arms to smite wrong with reason and truth, secure 
in the power of both. I apf^ from the patriarchs of New 
England to the poets of New England; from Endicott to 
Lowell; from Winthrop to Longfellow; from Norton to 
Holmes; and I appeal in the name and by the rights of that 
common citizenship of that common origin — ^back of both the 
Puritan and the Cavalier — ^to which all of us owe our being. 
Let the dead past, consecrated by the blood of its martyrs, 
not by its savage hatreds,— darkened alike by kingcraft and 
priestcraft — let the dead past bury its dead. Let &e present 
and the future ring with the song of the singers. Blessed be 
the lessons thev teach, the laws they make. Blessed be die 
eye to see, the light to reveal. Blessed be Tolerance, sitting 
ever on the right hand of Qod, to guide the way with loving 
word, as blessed be all that brings' us nearer the goal of tme 
religion, true Bepublicanism, and true patriotism, diatrast of 
watehwords and labels, shams and heroes, belief in onr conn- 
try and ourselves. It was not Cotton Mather, bnt John 
Oreenleaf Whittier, who cried : — 

" Dear God and Father of us all. 
Forgive onr faith in cruel lies ; 
Forgive the blindness that denies. 

" Cast down our idols — overturn 
Our bloody altars, — make us see 
ThjBclf in Thy humani^ I " 


116 Clie speaker 

A Plea for Patriotism 


[ThiB extract is from an after-dumer speech given at a 
banquet in New York city, April ZOih, 1889. It commemor- 
ates the one hnudiedth anniversarr of the inauguration of 
George Washington as the first President of the United 
States. The address in full will be found in the New York 
Tribvne of May Ist, 1889.] 

ioONGBATnLATB you to-daj, as one of the instnic- 
tive and interesting features of this occasion, 
that these great ^oroughfares, dedicated to 
trade, have closed their doors and covered the 
insignia of commerce with the Stars and 
Stripes; that your great exchanges have closed, 
and that into the very heart of Wall Street the flag has been 
carried. Upon this old, historic spot the men who give Uieir 
time and energies to trade have given these days to their 
conntiy, to the cause of her glory, and to the aspiration of 
her honor and development 

I have great pleasure in believing that the love of cottntry 
has been intensified in many hearts here ; not only of yoa who 
might be called, and some who have been called, to witness 
your love for the flag in battlefields by sea and land, hut in 
these homes, among these fair women who look down upon 
us to-night, and in the thoughts of those little children who 
mingled their piping cries with the hoarser acclaims as we 
moved along your streets to-day. 

I believe that patriotism has been blown into a higher and 
holier flame in many hearts. These banners with vraich you 
have covered your walls, these patriotic inscriptions, must 
come down, and the ways of commerce and trade be resumed 
here again. 

I will ask you to carry these banners that now hang on the 
wall into your homes, into the public schools of your city, into 
all your great institutions where children are gathered, and 
to drape them there, that the eyes of the young and of the 


CDe Speaker ii7 

old may look upon that Sag as one of the familiar adorn- 
meots of the American home. 

Have we not learned that not stocks, nor bonds, nor stately 
hoDsee, nor lands, nor the products of the mill, 1b our conn- 
by ? It is a spiritual thought that is in our minds. It is 
the flag and what it stands for. It is iia glorious history. It 
is the fireside and the home. It is the high thoughts that are 
in the heart, bom of the inspiration which comes by the 
stories of their fathers, the martyrs to liberty ; it is the grare- 
yards into which our careful country has gathered the uncon- 
scious dust of those who have died. Here, in these things, is 
that thing we love and call our country rather than in any- 
thing that can be touched or handled. 

To elevate the morals of our people ; to hold np the law 
as that sacred thing, which, like the ark of Qod of old, cannot 
he touched by irreverent hands, and frowns upon every at- 
tonpt to displace its supremacy ; to unite our people m all 
that makes home pure and honorable, as well as to give our 
energies in the direction of our material advancement, — these 
services ve may render, and out of this great demonstration 
do we not all feel like reconsecrating ourselves to the love and 
service of our country ? 


Her house is all of echo made 
Where never dies the sound ; 
And as her brows the clouds invad^ 
Her feet do strike the ground. 



118 Cde %peaitec 

The Independence of Cuba 


[This stiniiig address, one of the most efficient delivered 
in Congress daring many yeaie, was msde in the United 
States Senate March 24th, 1898. Senator Thurston had just 
made a trip acrosa Cuba for the purpose of inTestigating the 
affairs in tite island. Mrs. TharstoD, vho had accompanied 
him, died in Cuba. Her last request was that her husband 
should do all he could to secure the interrention of the 
United States Qovenunent.] 


AH here by command of silent lips to speak once 
and for all upon the Cuban situation. I shall 
endeavor to be honest, conservative and just I 
have no purpose to stir the public passion to any 
action not necessary and imperative to meet the 
____^ duties and necessities of American responsibil- 
ity. Christian humanity, and national honor. I Tould shirk 
this task if I could, but I dare not I cannot satisfy my cod- 
science except by speaking, and speaking now. 

I went to Cuba firmly believing that the condition of af- 
fairs there had been greatly exaggerated by the press, and my 
own efforts were directed in the first instance to the at> 
tempted exposure of these supposed exaggerations. There 
has undoubtedly been much sensationalism in the journalism 
of the time, but as to the condition of affairs in Cuba there 
has been no exaggeration, because ezaggeratioa has been im- 

Under the inhuman policy of Weyler not less tiian 400,000 
self-supporting, simple, peaceable, defenceless country people 
were driven from their homes in Uie agricultural portions of 
the Spanish provinces to the cities, and imprison^ upon the 
barren waste ontaide the residence portions of these cities 
and within the lines of intrenchment established a little way 
beyond. ITieir humble homes were burned, their fields laid 
waste, their implements of husbandry destroyed, their live 
stock and food supplies for the most part confiscated. Most 
of the people were old men, women, and children. Th^ 


C(>e speaker no 

■were thus placed in hopeless imprisoDment, without shelter 
or food. There was no work for them in the cities to which 
thej were driven. They were left there with nothing to de- 
pend upon except the scan^ ch&ritj' of the inhabitants of the 
cities and with slow starvation their inevitable fate. 

The pictures in the American newspapers of the etanriug 
reconcentrados are true. They can all be duplicated by the 
thousands. I never saw, and please God I may never again 
see, BO deplorable a sight aa the reconcentrados in the suborbs 
of Matanzas. I can never forget to my dying day the hope- 
less angaish in their despairing eyes. Huddled aboat their ' 
little bark hute, they raised no voice of appeal to us for alms 
as we went araong them. Their only api^ came from their 
sad eyes, through which one looks as through an open window 
into Uieir agonizing souls. 

The Government of Spain has not and will not appropriate 
one dollar to save these people. They are now being at- 
tended, and nursed, and administered to by the charity of 
the United States. Think of the sgfiilackl We are feeding 
these citizens of Spain; we are nursing their sick; we ere 
saving such as can be saved, and yet there are those who still 
B^ it is right for us to send food, but we must keep hands 
<^ 1. say that the time has come when muskets mttst go 
with the food. We asked the governor if he knew of any 
relief for these people except through the charity of the 
United States. He did not. We asked him, " When do yon 
think the time will come that these people can be placed in a 
position of self-support? " He replied to us, with deep feel- 
ing, " Only the good God or the great Government of the 
United States can answer that question." I hope and beUeva 
that the good God by the great GorenimeDt of the TTniCed 
States wul answer that question. 

I shall refer to these horrible things no further. They are 
there. God pity me; I have seen th^n; they will remain in 
my mind forever — and this is almost the twentieth century. 
Christ died nineteen hundred yeara ago, and Spain is a Chris- 
tian nation. She has set up more crosses in more lands, 
beneath more skies, and under them has butchered more peo- 
ple than all the other nations of the earth combined. Europe 
may tolerate her existence as long as the people of the Old 
World wish, God grant that before another Christmas morn- 
ing the last vestige of Spanish ^rranny and oppression will 
hare vanished from the Western Hemisphere. 


120 cbe Speaker 

f I comiselled silence and moderation from thia fioor when 
the paasion of the nation seemed at white heat over the de- 
etmction of the Maine; but it seems to me^ue time for actioii 
has QOT come. No greater reason for it can exist to-morrow 
than exists to-day. Every hour's delay only adds another 
chapter to the awfnl story of misery and death. Only one 
power can intervene — the United States of America. Ours 
is the one great nation of the New World, the mother of 
American republics. She holds a position of trust and 
responsibility .tssracd. ^^ peoples and affairs of the whole 
Western Hemisphere. It was her glorious example which 
inspired the patriota of Cuba to raise the flag of liberty in her 
eternal hilis. We cannot refuse to accept Qiis responsibUi^ 
which the God of the universe has placed upon ue as the one 
great power in the New World. We must act I What shall 
our action be? pome say. The acknowledgment of the bellig- 
erency of the revolutionists. The hour and the opportunity 
for that have passed away. Others say> Let us by resolution 
or official proclamation recognize the independence of the 
Cubans. It is too late for even such recognition to be of 
great avail. Others say. Annexation to the United States 1 
God forbid! I would oppose annexation with my latest 
breath. The people of Cuba are not our people ; they cannot 
assimilate wim ua ; and beyond all that, I am utterly and 
unalterably opposed to any departure from the declared pol- 
icy of the fathers, which would start this republic for the 
first time upon a career of conquest and dominion utterly 
at variance with the avowed.pnrpoBea and the manifest des- 
tiny of popular govemmeuy 

There are those who say that the sSt&vrs of Cuba are not 
the affairs of the United States ; iriio insist that we can stand 
idly by and see that island devastated and depopulated, its 
business interests destroyed, its commercial intercourse with 
us cut off, its people starved, degraded and enslaved. It may 
be the naked le^I right of the United States to stand thus 
idly by. I have the legal right to pass along the street and 
see a helpless dog stamped into the earth under the heels of a 
ruffian. I can pass by and say, that is not my dog. I can 
sit in my comfortable parlor, and through my plate-glass 
window see a fiend outraging a helpless woman near-by, and 
I can Ic^ially say, this is no affair of mine — ^it is Dot happen- 
ing on toy premises. But if I do, I am a coward and a cur, 
unfit to live, and, God knows, unfit to die. 


Cbe ^peafaet 121 

And yet I cannot protect the dog nor save the vomas 
withoat the ezercue of force. We cannot intervene and save 
Cuba without the ezercise of force, and force means var; 
war means blood. The lowly Nazaraie on the shores of 
Galilee preached the divine doctrine of love, " Peace on earth, 
good will toward men." Not peace on earth at the expense i 
of liberty and humanity. Not good will toward men who 
despoil, enslave, degrade, and starve to death their fellow- ' 
men. I believe in the doctrine of Christ. I believe in the 
doctrine of peace ; but men must have liberty before there can 
come abiding peace. When has a battle for humani^ and . 
liberty ever been woo except by force? What barricade of 
wrong, injustice, and oppression has ever been carried except 
by force ? 

Force compelled the signature of unwilling royalty to the 
great Atagna Gharta; force put life into the Declaration of 
Indgendence and made effective the Emancipation Prodam- 
ationj force waved the flag of revolution over Bunker HIU 
.^aBCf^rked the snows of Valley Forge with blood-stained 
feet; force held the broken line of Shiloh, climbed the flame- 
ewept hill at Chattanooga, and stormed the clouds on Tjook- 
out Heights; force marched with Sherman to the sea, rode 
with Sheridan in the Valley of the Shenandoah, and gave 
Grant victory at Appomattox; force saved the XTnion, kept 
the stars in the flag, made " niggaia " men. The time for 
God's force has come again. Let the impassioned lips of 
American patriots once more take up the song: 

" In the beauty of the lilies Christ was bom acrosB the sea. 
With a glory in His bosom that transfigured you and me. 
As He died to make men holy, let ns £e to make men free. 
For God is marching on." 

Others may hesitate, others may procrastinate, others may 

Elead for further diplomatic negotiation, which means delay, 
at for me, I am ready to act now, and for my action I am 
ready to answer to my coDBcience, my countiy, and my God. 


123 Cde %9taktt 

The Children of the Poor 


[This deeciiptiye excerpt waa delivered in Boston, Sunday, 
Angufit 30th, 1846, ae part of a sennon on " The Perishing 
Classes in Boston."] 

g you wonld know the life of one of tiiose poor 
lepers of Boston, you would wonder and weep. 
Let me take one of them at random out of the 
Toass. He was bom, unwelcome, amid wretched- 
BesB and want His coming increased hoth. 
Miserably he struggles through hia infancy, less 
tended than the lion's whelp. He becomes a boy. He is cov- 
ered only with rags, and those squalid with long-accumulated 
filth. He wanders about your streets, too low eiea to seek 
employment, now snatohing from a gutter half-rotten fruit, 
which the owner flings away. He is ignorant; he has never 
entered a school house ; to him even the alphabet is a mystory. 
He is young in years, yet old in misery. There is no hope in 
his face. He herds with others like himself, low, ragged, 
hungry and idle. If misery loves company, he finds that sat- 
isfaction. Follow him to his home at night ; he herds in a 
cellar; in the same sty with father, mother, brothers, sisters, 
and perhaps yet other families of like degree. What served 
him for dress by day is his only bed by night. 

Well, (his boy steals some trifle, a biscui^ a bit of rope, or a 
knife from a shop window. He is seized and carried to jail. 
The day comes for trial. He is marched through the streets 
in handcuffs, the companion of drunkards and thieves, thus 
deadening the little self-respect which nature left even in an 
outcast's Dosom. He sits there chained like a beast; a boy 
in irons t the sport and mockery of men vulgar as the com- 
mon sewer. His trial comes. Of course he is convicted. The 
show of his countenance is witness against him. His rags 
and dirt, his ignorance, his vagrant habits, his idleness, all 
testify against him. That face so young, and yet so impu- 
dent, so sly, so writ all over with embryo villainy, is evidence 
enough. The jury are soon convinced, for they see his temp- 
tations in his look, and surely know that in sach a condition 


Cbe speaker 128 

men will steal ; yes, they themBelyes would steal. The judge 
represents the law, and that practtcall; regards it a. crime for 
a bo^ to be weak and poor. Much of our common law, it 
seems to m^ is based on might, not right So he is hurried 
oft to jail at a tender age, and made legally the companioD of 
felons. Kow the State has him wholly in her power; by that 
rough adc^tion has made him her own child, and sealed the 
indenture witli the jailer's key. His handctiffs are the sym- 
bol of his souship to the Stat«. She shuts him in her college 
for the little. What does ibat teach him? Science, letters; 
— even morals and religioD ? Little enough of this, even in 
Boston, and in most counties of Mass^usetts, I think, 
nothing at all, not eren a trade which he can practice when 
hia term expiree. I have been told a story, and I wish it 
might be falsely told, of a boy, in this city, of sixteen sent 
to the house of correction for five years because he stole a 
bunch of keys, and coming out of jail at twenty-one, unable 
to write, or read, or calculate, and with no trade but that of 
picking oakum. Yet he had been five years the child of the 
State, and in that college for the poor I Who would employ 
such a youth ; with such a reputation ; with the smell of the 
jail in his very breath ? Not your shrewd men of busincsa — 
they know the risk; not your respectable men, membera of 
churches and all that; not they ! Why, it would hurt a man's 
reputation for piety to do good in that way. Besides, the risk 
is great, and it argues a great deal more Christianity than it 
is popular to have, for a respectable man to employ such a 
youth. He is forced bsck into crime again. I say, forced, 
for honest men will not employ him when the State shoves 
him out of jail. Soon you will have him in the court again, 
to be punished more severely. Th«i he goes to the State 
prison, and then again, and again, till deata mereifully ends 


134 cbe ^pea&ec 



[This extract from an oratioo on Itobert Burns was delir- 
ered at the nnTeilinf of a monument to the poet in Central 
Park, New York ci^. " Orationa and Addreesea by Qeorge 
William Curtis" is published by Harper & Brothers. No 
one of our orators more folly satisfies the demands of the 
student of public speaking than does Curtis. In him were 
combined the splendid style of a literary man, the stirring 
convictions of a reformer and the bold mthosiasm of the 
orator. No better models for the class room are to be fonnd, 
and no greater inspiration for the student vho is to write 
orations than the pages of the three volumes containing the 
public utterances of Qeorge William Curtis.] 

E uuveO to-day and set here for perpetual contem- 
plation, not the monument of the citizen at 
whom respectable Dumfries looked askance, 
but the statue of a great poet Once more we 
recognize that no gift is more divine than his, 
that no influence is more profound, that no hu- 
man being is a truer benefactor of his kind. The spiritual 
power of poetry, indeed, like that of natural beauty, is im- 
measurable, and it is not easy to define and describe Bums's 
service to the world. But, without critical and careful detail 
of observation, it is plain, first of all, that he interpreted 
Scotland as no ther country has been revealed by a kindred 
genius. Were Scotland suddenly submerged and her people 
swept away, the tale of her politics and Mi^ and great events 
would survive in histories. But essential Scotland, the cus- 
toms, legends, superstitions, langnage ; the grotesque btunor, 
the keen sagacity, the simple, serious faim, the character- 
tetic spirit of the national life, caught up and preserved in the 
sympatiiy of poetic genius, wonld live forever in the poefa 
verse. The sun of Scotland sparkles in it; the birds of Scot- 
land sing ; its breezes rustle ; its waters murmur. Each " tim- 


Cbe %vmktt 125 

orons wee beastie," the " ourie cattle/' and the " silly sheep " 
are softly penned and gathered in this all-embracing fold of 
song. Orer the dauntless batfle-hymn of " Scots wha hae wi' 
WaSace bled " risee the solemn music of the " Cotter's Satur- 
day Night." Through the weird witch romance at " Tarn 
o'Shanter " breathes the scent of the wild rose of Alloway, 
and the daring and astounding babel of the " Jolly Beggais " 
is penetrated by the heart-breaking eigh to Jessie : 
" Although thou maun never be mine, 

Although even hope is denied, 
"Tis sweeter for thee despairing 

Than aught in the world beside." 

The poet touches every scene and sound, every thought and 
feeling, but the refrain of all is Scotland. To what other 
man was it ever given so to transfigure the country of his 
birth aJid love? Every bird aJid flower, every hill and dale 
and river, whispers and repeats his name, and the word Scot- 
land is sweeter because of Bobert Boms. 

But in thus casting a poetic spell upon everything distinct^ 
ively Scotch, Burns fostered a patriotism which hae become 
proverbial. The latest historian of England says that at the 
time of Bnms's birth England was mad with hatred of the 
Scots. But when Bums died there was not a Scotchman who 
was not proud of being a Scotchman. A Scoteh ploughman, 
singing of his fellow-peasanta and their lives uid loves in 
their own language, had given them in their own eyes a dig- 
nity they had never known : 

" A man's a man for a' that." 

And America is bat the snblime endeavor to make the 
ploughman's words true. Great poets, before and after 
Bums, have been honored by their countries and by the 
world ; but is there any great poet of any time or conntir who 
has BO taken the heart of what onr Abruiam Lincoln, himself 
one of them, called the plain people, that, as was lately seen 
in Edinboigh, when he lud been dead nearly a hundred years, 
workmen going home from work begged to look upon this 
statue for the love and honor they bore to Bobbie BumsP 
They love him for their land's sake, and they are better 
Scotchmen because of him. England does not love Shakes- 
peare, nor Italy Dante, nor Germany Ooethe, with the pas- 
sionate ardor viQi which Scotland loves Bums. It is no won- 


126 Cbe speaker 

der, for here is Auld Scotia's thistle bloomed out into a flower 
BO fair that its beauty and perfume fill the world with joy. 

How litl;, then, among the memorials of great m^ of 
those who in different conntriea and times and ways have 
been leaders of mankind, we raise this statue of tiie poet 
whose genius is an unconscious but sweet and eleratiog in- 
fluence in our national life. It is not a power dramatic, obvi- 
ous, imposing, immediate, like that of the statesman, the 
warrior, and the inventor, but it is as deep and strong and 
abiding. The soldier fights for his native land, but the poet 
touches that land with the charm that makes it worth fighting 
for, and fires the warrior's heart with the fierce energy that 
mfdies bis blow invincible. The etateaman enlarges and 
orders liberty in the State, but the poet fosters the love of lib- 
erty in the heart of the citizen. Tne inventor multiplies the 
facilities of life, but the poet makes life better worth living. 
Here, then, among trees and flowers and waters; here upon 
the greensward and under the open sky; here, where birds 
carol, and children play, and lovers whisper, and the various 
stream of human life flows by — we raise the statue of Robert 
Bums. While Uie human heart beats, that name will be 
music in human ears. He knew better than we the pathos of 
human life. We know better than he the infinite pathos of 
his own. Ah, Bobert Bums, Bobert Burns I Whoever lingers 
here as he passes and muses upon your statue will see in 
imagination a solitary mountain in your beautiful Scotland, 
heaven-soaring, wrapped in impene^able clouds. Suddenly 
the mists part, and there are the heather, the brier-rose, and 
the gowan fire; the cushat is moaning; the curlew is calling; 
the plover is singing; the red deer is bounding, and lookl 
The clouds roll utterly away, and the clear summit is touched 
with the lender gloij of ennihine, heaven'e own beiediction \ 


Ciw Apeakei 127 

A Night in Ste. Pilagie' 


[Thia ecene from " Lazarre," one of Mre. Catbervood's 
best etoriee, is reprinted by penniBBioQ of tlie pablishere, The 
Bobbs-Uerrill Company. The etor; contaioB other Btrong 
Bcenca. The last chapter has been OBed with great saccess.] 


f FTEB the execution of Louis XVI and Marie An- 

Al toinette, the Dauphin, their little son, was im- 
I prisoned and most cruelly tortured. A wreck in 
1 body and mind, he was at last spirited away and 
I secretly taken to America, where he was placed 

I in the care of an Indian family. The outdoor 

life developed a splendid physical being, although he always 
bore the scars of wonnds inflicted by his torturers. When 
he was eighteen be met with a peculiar accident, after which 
hia clouded mind was strangely cleared. Just then he met 
some French Boyalists, refugees, who from his resemblance to 
the Bourbons and from the scars, recognized him as the Dau- 
phin. He spent some time in study, and then went to Paris 
with the boyish hope of establishing his claim to the throne. 
Here he encountered intrigue and treachery, and at last he 
was accused of attempting to assassinate Napoleon in the 
streets, and was cast into a loathsome prison of Ste. Pilagie. 
This is his account of his experience in the prison : 

We passed along a corridor, and my gaoler unlocked a cell, 
from which a revoTting odor came. 'Hiere was no light except 
what streamed through a loophole under the ceiling. He 
turned the key upon me and left me in that revolting place. 
Oh, for a deep draught of the wilderness I There seemed to 
be an iron bed at one side, with a heap of rags on top. I 
resolved to stand up all night before trusting myself on that 
vile bed. The cell was soon explored. Two strides in each 

• rto«"Luun," CopTii^t, IMI. tJMd br ipedal pennlMloa ot the pnbUibm, 


128 Clie %ptaktt 

direction measured it. The stooe walls were cut or matted 
witii Dames I could dimly see. I braced myself against the 
door and watched the loophole till the last ray of light waa 
gone. Tired with the day's march and with a taste of clean 
outdoor air still in my lungs, I chose one of the two comers 
not occupied by the iU-odored bed, sat down and fell asleep, 
dropping my cares. A groan in my ear stopped sleep. I aat 
up, awake in ereiy nerve. There was nobody in the cell with 
me; perhaps the groan bad come from a neighboring pris- 
oner. Then a faint stir of covering could be heard upon the 
bed. I rose and pressed as far as I could into my comer. 
No beast of the wilderness ever had such terror for me as the 
unknown thing that had been my cellmate half a night with- 
out my knowledge. Was a vampire, a demon, a witch, a 
ghost locked in Uiere with me? 

It moaned again, so faintly that compassion instantly got 
the better of snperstition. " Who is there? " I got'no an- 
swer, and, taking my resolution in hand, moved toward the 
bed, determined to know what housed with me. Groping 
darkly, I realized that something helpless to the verge of 
extinction lay on the bed. I found a clammy, death-cold 
forehead, a nose and cavernous checks, an open and fever- 
roughened month. I poured water in my handkerchief and 
bathed his face. The poor wretch gave a reviving moan; so 
I felt emboldened to steady the jug and let drop by drop 
gurgle down its throat. 

My cellmate could not see me. I doubt if he ever knew 
that a hand gave him water. His eyes were meaningless, and 
he was so gaunt that his body scarcely made a ridge on the 
bed. I did not then know that St«. Pilagie was the tomb of 
the accused, where this man had draped out years without 
knowing why he was put there. 

But gradually an uneasiness whidi cannot be imagined by 
one who has not felt it, grew upon me. I wanted li^t The 
absmce of it was torture. Light to virify the stifling air, 
which died as tiiis man was dying, as I should die — in blind- 
ing mark. 

Moisture broke out all over my body, and cold dew stood 
on my forehead. How could human Inngs breaOie the mid- 
night of these blackening walls? The place was hot with the 
hell of confinement. I said over and over, " God, Thoa 
art light I In Thee is no darkness at alL" 


Cf>e Speaker i2» 

This anguish seemed a repetition of something I had en- 
dared once before. The body and spirit remembered, thon^ 
the mind had no register. I clawed at the walls. If I elf^t 
it was to wake gasping, fighting upward with both handa. 
Oh, how mnch l%ht was going to waste over wide fields and 
sparkling seas! If eTer I came to the sun again I would 
stretch myself and roll from side to side to let it bum me 
well. I swore to God that if ever I came out I would nerer 
pass BO much as a litUe plant prostrate in darkness without 
helping it to the light 

At night by the loophole the tomkey admitted a priest to 
the dying man. As he prepared to administer the sacrament, 
I measured the lank, ill-stning assistant. I thought how easy 
it would be to strip the loose surplice over this sacristan's 
head. There was a swift clip of the arm around your oppo- 
n^ifs neck which I had learned in wrestling, that cut the 
breath ofE and dropped him as limp as a cloth. It was an 
Indian trick. I said to m^elf that it would be impossible to 
use that trick on the sacristan, even if he left the cell behind 
the deaf old priest I did not want to hurt him. Still he 
Toold have a better diance to live after I had squeezed his 
neck than I should have if I did not squeeze it The priest 
took out of a silver case a vessel of oQ and a branch. He 
sprinkled the holy water over ns, saying : 

" Asperget me, domiae, hystopo, et mundahor; 
Lavabia me, et auper mvem deallxibor," 

While I bent my head to the drops I knew it would be im- 
poeBible to choke down the sacristen, strip off his sorplic^ 
invest myself with it and get out of the cell before the priest 
or turnkey looked back. The priest went on with the service^ 
the sacristan responding. I knew the end was approaching. 
My hand was as.cold as the nerveless one which would soon 
receive the candle. I told mjrself I should be a fool to at- 
tempt it There was not one chance in a hundred, I should 
not squeeze hard enoa|^. The man would yell. If I was as 
svrift as lightning and silent as force, they would take me 
in the act It was impossible, but people who cannot do im- 
possible things have to perish. The priest put a lifted 
candle in the stiffened fingers and finished, ' Aceipe lamp- 
adem ardontem custodi uacHonem taam." 1 said to myself: 
** If I do not get out of here, he will have to say those words 
over me. I cannot do it 1 Nobody could I It is impossible 1 " 


130 Cfie ^peaftec 

The eacriBtan now bc^sn to pack all ihe sacred implemenla 
into the cases, preparing his load in the center ot the room. 
The priest discovered that the man was dead. The sacristan's 
last office was to Gi the two lighted candles on the head and 
foot railing of the bed. They showed the corpse in its appall- 
ing stillness, and stood like two angels with the pit between 
them. The sacristan rapped on the door to let the tomkej 
on the oatside know it was time to unlock. The turnkey 
opened a gap — the doorway thiongh which he could see the 
candles and the bed. He opened the door no wider liian the 
widUi of the priest, who stepped out as the sacristan bent for 
the portables. There was hgntning in my arm as it took the 
sacnstao around the neck, and let him limp upon the stones. 
The trail of the priesf s cassock was scucely ttirongh the 
door. The tomkey called : 

" Eh, bien I Sacristan t Make hasto witli your load. I 
hare the death to report He is not so pretty that you most 
stand gazing at him all ni^t" I was dressed in the surplice, 
and backed out with my load, facing the room. If my gaoler 
had thmst hie candle at me; if the priest had turned to 
speak ; if the man in the cell had got his breath before the 
bolt was turned ; if my white surphce had not appeared the 
principal part of me in that black place — 

It was impossibly but I had done it I was free. 

♦ ♦ 

Respice Finem 

If y soul, sit thou a patient looker-on ; 
Jodge not the play hefore the play is done; 
Her plot hath many changea; every day 
Speaks a new scene ; the last act crowns the play. 


at Speaker isi 

The Call of the Wild' 

(By conrteoDB permifiBion of the MacmillaQ Co., New York.) 

[There is a vigoroas manlineBs aod a graphic intooBi^ id 
the B^le ol Mr. London that snggeste the beet work of Bad- 
jard Kipling. This books belongs with the studies of animal 
psychology that have beoi the latest coDtrU)ation to natural 
history. Here is an ad^tation especially fitting for a boy.] 

THIS is the story of Buck, a beaatiful dog belong- 
ing to Jndge Hiller, in the eon-kiss&d Santa 
Clara Valley. In 1897, because men groping in 
the Arctic darkness had found a yellow metal, 
Ihousands from all over the world poured into 
the frozen North. Buck shared the fate of many 
a dog from Puget Sound to San Diego. He was kidnapped 
and carried into the Northland, exchanging the life of a. king 
for the weary toil of trace and trail. Many cruel lessons 
tat]^t him &s law of cinb and fang, and by d^rees the 
domesticated generations fell away from him and instincts 
long dead bec^e alive again. 

Buck had never seen dogs fight as these wolfish creatures 
with whom he worked fought, and his first experience taught 
him an unforgettable lesson. When the fight between the two 
dogs began thirty or forty huskies ran to the spot and sur- 
rounded the combatants in an intent and silent circle. Buck 
did not comprehend those silent intentions nor the eager way 
witti which they were licking their chops, but when one of 
the dogs was Imocked off her feet the ring closed in upon 
her, snarling and yelping, and she was buried, screaming 
with agony, beneath the bristling mass of bodies. So that 
was the way. No fair play. Once down, that was the end 
of you. Well, he would see to it that he never went down. 

The leader of the team was a big snow-white fellow from 
Spitzbergen, who soon felt his supremacy threat^ied by the 

■ CopTTlghl, Tba MtemlllMi Compuir. 


182 C|)e %ptahtt 

strange Southland dog. It was ineTitable that the clash toe 
leadership ahould come. Buck wanted it. He wanted it be- 
cause it was bis nature, because he had been gripped ti^t by 
this nameless, incomprehensible pride of the traU and trace — 
that pride which holds doge in the toil to the last gasp, which 
Imea them to die joyfuUj in the hameea, and brealts' their 
hearts if they are cut out of the harness. 

At last the encounter came. As Spitz's teeth clipped to- 
gether like the steel jaws of a trap, and he backed away for 
better footing, Buck knew &% time had come. It was to the 
death. Fifty dogs were now drawn up in an expectant circle. 
They, too, were silent, their eyes only gleaming and their 
breaths drifting slowly upward. The scene came to Buck 
T-ith a sense of familiarity — the white woods, and earth and 
moonlight, and the thrill of battle. Spits was a practiced 
fighter. He had held his own with all manner of dogs and 
adiiered mastery over them. Bitter rage was his, but never 
blind rage. He nerer rushed till he was prepared to re- 
ceive rush. In vain Buck strove to sink hb teeth in the 
neck of the big white dog. Whenever his fangs struck for 
the softer flesh they encountered the fangs of Spite. Then 
he warmed up and enveloped Spitz in a whirlwind of 
rushes. Time and time again he tried for the snow-white 
throat, where life bubbled near the surface, and each time 
and every time Spitz slashed him and got away. Spitz was 
untouched, while Buck was streaming with blood and panting 
bard. The fight was growing desperate, and all the while the 
silent and wolfish circle waited to finish off whichever dog 
went down. As Buck grew winded Spitz took to rushing, and 
he kept hira ateggering for footing. Once Buck went over, 
and the whole circle of sixty dogs sterted up ; but he recov- 
ered himself almost in midair, and the circle sat down again 
and waited. Bnt Buck possessed a quality that made for 
greatness — imagination. He fought by instinct, but he could 
Sght by head as well. He mshed as tboagh attempting the 
old shoulder trick, bnt at the last instant swept low to the 
SDOw and in. His teeth closed on Spitz's left foreleg. There 
was a crunch of breaking bone, and the white dog faced him 
OD three legs. Thrice he tried to knock him over, then re- 
peated the trick and broke the right foreleg. Despite the 
pain and helplessness. Spitz struggled madly to keep ap. 
He saw the silent circle with gleaming eyes, lolling tongues, 
and silvery breaths, drifting upward, cloeing in upon him 


Cfie Speaker 133 

M he had seen similar circles close in npon beaten antagonists 
in the past. Only this time he was the one who was beaten. 
Spitz quivered and bristled as he staggered back and forth, 
snarling with horrible menaccj as thoa^ to frighten off im- 
pending death. Then Buck sprang in and out; but while 
be was in, shonlder had at last met shoulder. The dark circle 
became a dot on the moon-flooded snow as Spitz disappeared 
from view. Buck stood and looked on, the successful cham- 
pion, the dominant primordial beast^ who had made his kill 
and found it good. 

Buck bad many masters, but for John Thornton alone he 
felt a love that was feverish and burning, that was adoration, 
that was madness. Bat in spite of this great love that he had 
borne John Thornton, he had become a thing of the wild. 
He sat by John Thornton's fire, a broad-breasted dog, white- 
fanged and long-furred; but behind him were the £ades of 
all manner of dogB, half wolves and wild wolves, urgent and 
peremptory. Deep in the forest a call was sounding, and as 
often as he heard the call, mysteriously thrilling and luring, 
he felt compelled to turn his back upon the fire and the 
beaten earth around it and to plunge into the forest, and on 
and on, be knew not where or why. But the love of John 
Thornton drove htm back to the fire again. 

John Thornton asked little of man or nature. He was 
unafraid of the wild. With a handful of salt and a Tifle he 
could plunge into ihe wildemess and fare wherever he 
pleased and as long as he pleased. To Buck it was boundless 
delist, this hunting, fishing and indefinite wandering 
UiTongh strange places. At last John Thornton found a yel- 
low placer in a broad valley, where the gold showed like yel- 
low butter across the bottom of the washing pan. Like a 
giant he teiled, days Sashing on the heels of daye like dreams 
as he heaped the treasure up. 

Buck had nothing to do, and his blood longing became 
stronger than ever before. He longed for larger, more for- 
midable quarry, and he came upon it one day on the divide 
at the head of the creek. A band of twenty moose had crossed 
over, and chief among them was a great bull, who had been 
wounded by an Indian's arrow. Quided by that instinct 
which came from the old hunting dogs of the primordial 
world. Buck proceeded to cut the bull out from the herd, 
and Ax)m then on, night and day, he never left Ms prey, 
Dever gave it a moment's rest, never permitted it to eat or 


131 die ^eafcet 

drink, mitil at last, at the end of the fourth iaj, he poUed 
the exhausted beaet down. For a day and a n^^t he re- 
mained by the kill, eating and sleeping tarn and turn abont 
Then rested, refreshed, strong, he turned his face toward 
camp and John Thornton. As he held on he became mora 
and more conscious of the new stir in the land. The birds 
talked of it, the squirrels chattered about it. The very breeze 
whispered of it He leaped on with greater speed, opptesaed 
with the eense of calamity. Then, as he crossed the last 
watra«hed, a gust of orerpowering rage swept over him. The 
Yuhat Indians were dancing about the wreckage of Jdua 
Thornton's lodge, when they heard a fearful roaring and saw 
rushing upon them an animal the like of which they had 
never Been before. Buck sprang at the foremost man — it 
was the chief of the Ynhats — ripping the throat wide open 
till the rent jugular spouted a fountain of blood. He did 
not paoae to worry the victim, but ripped in passing, with the 
next bound tearing wide the throat of the second man. There 
was no withstanding >iim. He plunged about in their very 
midst, tearing, rending, destroying, in constant and terrific 
motion which defied the arrows they discharged at him. In 
fact, so inconceivably rapid were his movements, and so 
closely were the Indians tangled together that they shot one 
another with the arrows, and one young hunter, hnrling a 
apear at Buck in midair, drove it through the chest of an- 
other hunter with such force that the point broke through 
the skin of the back and stood out beyond. Then a panic 
seized the Yuhata, and they fied in terror to the woods, with 
Buck raging at their heels and dragging them down like deer 
as they raced. At last, wearying of the pursuit, he returned 
to the desolate camp and followed John Thornton's trace to 
the edge of a deep pool. All day Buck brooded by the pool, 
a great void in him, which ached and ached. Night came on, 
and the full moon rose high over the trees into the sky. And 
with the coming of the night, brooding and mourning by 
the pool. Buck became alive to the stirring of the new life in 
the forest. It was the call, the many-noted call, sounding 
more luringly and eompellinely than ever before. And as 
never before he was ready to obey. John Thornton was dead. 
The last tie was broken. Man and the claims of man so 
longer bound him. He leaped into the forest, his great throat 
a-bellow as he Bang a song of the younger world which is the 
song of the pack. 


Cbe Speabec 135 

The Prisoner of Zenda 


[Cop^ht, 1894, Henry Holt & Co., New Tork. TTua 
cndsQg is printed by permission of the pabli^ere. lliiB 
romantic Btory, whidi nas been read, acted, and recited 
throughoat the country, la annonnced ae " the Metory of 
three months in the life of an English gentleman." The 
hero is Ralph Bassendyll, who bears a striking resemblance 
to the heir to the throne of Buritania. Circumstances mak- 
ing it impossible for tiie king to appear on the day set for his 
coronation, Bassendyll Is crowned before all the people as 
the king of Buritania. The Duke of Strelsau, known as 
Black Michael, and third in order of succession to the throne, 
discovers the deception, and while the king's serranta are 
with the unwilling impostor, Black Michael cap.tures the king 
and takes him a prisoner to the castle of Zenda. The prin* 
cess Flavia, engaged to marry the king, had seen little of him, 
and cared nothing for him, but on the day of the coronation 
she fell in love with the man who was crowned king. Ru- 
dolph Bassendyll, playing the part of the king, and the lover 
of Flavia, was tempted to remain where he might be in the 
company of this beautiful princess, to whom Ms heart had 
gone out at once. But the day after the coronation he left 
with the king's servant for " a boar hunt," as he explained to 
Flavia, but really to rescue the king from the castle of Zenda. 
In this they were successful, though Bassendyll wag wounded 
tn the fight. The whole store finally reaches the Princess 
Flavia, and in the closing chapters of the book Bassendyll 
tells of their last meeting.] 

T was night, and I was in the cell wheran the 
king had lain in the castle of Zenda. I had 
thrown myself on a pallet by the window, and 
was looking out on the black water. . . . The 
keeper told me that the king was doing well, and . 
that he had seen the princess. Presently Fritz 
von Tarlenheim came into the room. He told me briefly that 
the king wanted to see me, and together we crossed the draw- 
br^lge and entered the room. The king was lying there in 



130 Cbe %p;aitet 

bed. I took tiie king's ring from my finger and pUced it on 

" I have tried not to dishonor it, sire," I said. - 

" I can't talk much," he said. " I wanted to take yoa to 
Streleau with me, and tell everybody what yon have dose, bnt 
they tell me the secret must be kept Coosm, yon have shown 
me how to play the king." 

Hia eyelids closed. I kissed the king's hand, and let Fritz 
lead me away. I hare never seen the king since. 

Outside fVitz turned to the left, and, without speaking, 
led me upstairs, through a handsome corridor in the diateao. 

" Where are we going ? " I asked. 

" She has sent for you. When it is over, come back to the 
bridge. I'll wait for you there." 

" What does she want? " said I, breathing qokkly. 

He shook his bead. 

" Does she know everyfliing? " 

" Yes, everything." 

He opened a door, and, g^itly pushing me in, closed it 
behind me. At first I thought that I was alone, but pres- 
ently I discerned a woman's figure standing by the window. 
I knew it was the princess, and I walked up to her, fell on one 
knee, and carried her hand to my lips. Before I knew I 
spoke softly : 

" Flavia ! " 

Somehow love gives even to a dull man the knowledge of 
his lover's heart. I had come to humble myself and pray 
pardon for my presumption; but idiat I said now was: 

" I love you with all my heart and sool ! With all my 
life and heart ! Always, from the first moment I saw you in 
the cathedral I There has been but one woman in the world 
to me — and there will be no other. But Qod forgive me the 
wrong I've done you ! I meant to tell you, I was going to 
on the night of the ball in Strelsan when Sapt interrupted 
me. After that I couldn't — I couldn't risk losing you before 
— before — I must! My darling, for you I nearly left the 
king to die 1 " 

" I know, I know ! What are we to do now, Budolph ? " 

I put my arm around her and held up while I said : 

" I am going away to-night." 
" Ah, no, no I " she cried. " Not to-night ! " 
" I must go fo-night, before more people have seen me. 
And how would yon have me stay, sweeth^rt, except — " 


Cbe ^eafcer 137 

" If I could come with yon I " 

"Hy GodI Don't talk about that!" and I Uirnst her a 
little back from me. 

" Why not? I love yon. Yon are as good a gentleman as 

Then. I canght her in my arms, and prayed her to come 
with me, darine all BtuitsJiia to take her from me. And 
for a vlule ahe liBtened, with wondering, dazzled eyee. But 
as her ^ea looked od me I grew ashamed, and at last was 

She drew herself away from me and stood against the wall, 
while I sat on the edge of the sofa, troubling in eTcry limb, 
Imowiug what I had done — loathing it, obstiniate not to nndo 
it. So we rested a long time. 

" I am mad I " I said, snllenly. 

" I love yonr madness, dear," she answered. 

Her face was away from me, but I caught the sparkle of 
a tear on her cheek. I clutched the sofa with my hand and 
held myself there. 

" Is love the only thing? " she asked, in low, sweet tones 
that seemed to bring a calm eveD to my wrung heart. " If 
love were the only tUng I could follow you — in rags, if need 
be — ^to the world's end ; for yon hold my heart in Uie hollow 
of yonr hand ! But is love the only thing ? 

" I know people write and talk as if it were. Perhaps, for 
some. Fate letfi it be. Ah, if I were one of them ! But if 
love had been the only thing, yon would have let the king 
die in his cell. Honor binds a woman, too, Rudolph. My 
honor lies in being true to my country and my House. I 
don't know why God has let me love you ; but I know that I 
must stay I Tour ring will always be on my finger, your 
heart in my heart, the touch of your lips on mine. But you 
must go and I must stay. Perhaps I must do what it kills 
me to think of doing." 

" Do what you will or what yon must," I said, " I think 
God shows His purposes to such as you. My part is lighter; 
for your ring shall be on my finger and your neart in mine, 
and no touch save of your lips will ever be on mine. So, may 
God comfort you, my darling 1 " 

" My lover and true knight ! " she said. " Perhaps we 
shall never see one another again. Eiss me, my dear, and 

I kiwed Iter as she bade me; but at the last she clung to 


13S die Weaker 

me, whispering nothing bat mj name, and that over and arts 
again — and again — and again ; and then I left her. 

I go to Dresden ereiy year and there I am met by my dear 
friend and companion, Fritz Ton Tarlenfaeim. And for a 
week Fritz and I are together, and I hear all of what falls out 
in Strelsan; and in the ereninge, as we walk and smoke to- 
gether, we talk of Sapt and of the king ; and, as the hours 
grow small, at last we speak of Flavia. For erety year Fritz 
carries with him to Dresden a Uttle box; in it lies a led rose, 
and ronnd the stalk of the rose is a slip of paper with the 
words written ; " Sndolph — Flavia — always." &Jid the like I 
send back by him. lliBt message, and the wearing of the 
rings, are all that now bind me and the Queen of Buritania. 
For — ^nobler, as I told her, for the act — she has followed 
where her duty to her country and her Hooae led her, and is 
the wife of the king, uniting bia subjects to him by the lore 
they bear to her, giving peace and quiet days to thousands 
by her self-sacrifice. 

Suggestions for a thirty-minute catting of " The Prisoner 
of Zenda " : After stating who the characters are, begin page 
96 ; omit 1. 16 to " listen to this," 1. 14, p. 97. Include all 
except what to reciter are stage directions, e. g., " she said in 
a low voice," 1. 10, p. 104. Begin p. 114, io^ude to p. 117. 
The scene printed u)ove, b^iiming p. 207, fi^ws uie two 
indicated above. 


**In the Toils of the Enemy*** 


(From " Taie Tarns," published by Q. P. Putnam's Sons, 
New York. Price, $1.00. Reprinted by permission of tit 
author and of the publishers.) 

[His name was William Horcer, but everyhoAy called him 
Little Jack Homer, the qaeereet, roundest, fattest, joUieat 
man in college. For tvo years he had had the honor of steer- 
ing the Yale boat through the lane of yachts and booming 
cannon to a most glorious victory, and if that vere not 
enough to establish bis popularity, he alvays knew the latest 
comic eonga and waa an inimitable atory teller. This is one of 
his yams, told to a group of friends in bis room one ni^t.] 


JI^^^T happened in New London last year, and I nerer 
Bra T told it to a soul before. You may remember that 
Jxl M when we went up last year I couldn't go with 
i"^9>4 you Yale fellows. What? No, it was my aunt 
Yes, I had my annt and my Biater Molly in tow, 
and we had to go to the Pequot Of course, 
there is never anybody but Harvard people there, but I met 
some Harvard fellows that I had known very well in An- 
dover, and we had a jolly time together. 

" The hotel was crowded, and my aunt and sister had a 
room jnst opposite to mine on the top floor. Some of the 
Harvard men had a room next to mine, and I foolishly un- 
bolted the door between. Well, there was a good deal of play 
and foolishness up to about 3 o'clock a.m., and then things 
quieted down, and when I woke up it was broad daylight, and 
I WBB utterly alone. 

" The race was to be at 11 o'clock. I jumped out of bed 
and looked at my watch on the bureau, — it was nearly 10, 
and the race was to be at 11 1 I stumbled about looking for 

• Osiirilckt, im, by J<Ao 8arnMrWe*d. 


140 Ctie ^peabet 

my clothes. Gad) Uy ralise and eveiyiliiiig was gone I I 
rang the bell, bnt in ttie excitement downstairs, I snppoB^ 
no one answered it. I looked in the next room. I looked out 
in the hall, there wasn't a sool in sight My aunt and sister 
were not in their room. I opened the window and looked 
oat Crowds of people were walking toward the wharf to 
take the boat to the race. 

" What was I to do F Those Harvard friends of mine 
thought it a good joke on me, I suppose, to steal my clothes 
and take themseWes off to the race without waking me up. 
I tried to call a chambermaid, but there wasn't one in sight 
— and I don't know what I ahoold have done in my anguish, 
when, thank the Lord, I heard a tap at m; door, and went 

" ' Will, do hnrry 1 ' It was my sister's voice. ' Aunt 
won't go to the race. Please hnrry I We'll have to go without 

" ' They're sttden all my clothes, Molly, — those Harvard 
fellows ' 

" ' Oh, Will I If s just a punishment to you after last 
night I The noise was dreadful I ' 

" ' Perhaps it is,' I said. ' But don't preach now, sister, 
dear. Get me something to put on. I want to see the race — * 

** ' I haven't anything — except some dresses. Yon can't 
wear those,' 

" ' No, not yours ; bat — Oh, Molly I get me Aunt Sarah's 
black silk,' I cried. * I haven't seen " Charlie's Aunt " for 
nothing. I'll wear anything rather than not see the race! ' 

"Well, Molly had seen 'Charlie's Aunt,' too, and she 
laughed and caught on to the idea in great shape. She Sang 
me my aunf s dress and a lace cap and bonnet. I put 'em on, 
and in five minutes I looked very much like an old lady, out 
for the sights. I worked burnt match lines around my eyee 
in good old Psi U theatrical style, and then, in case of emer- 
gency, I had a veil. 

" Molly was quick-witted and got me out of the Pequot 
the back way, and we hurried down to the wharf without 
any one suspecting us. But there, alas, we found the boat 
had gone! But, as luck would have it, one of Molly's school 
friends, with a lot of girls and Harvard men, whom we 
didn't know, were going to see the race on a private steam 
yacht, and were waiting for their chaperons to come along 
lEom the hotel. Molly talked with her friend and intro* 


Cbe speaker i4i 

dnced me. I played my part of ' Charlie's Aunt ' in great 
ehape, and they asked me if I would be willing to chaperon 
the crowd. Well, I was willing, you can better believe, for it 
was late, and I wanted to see the race Uie worst way. 

" The Harv^d men got as all in their launch as quickly 
as possible, and we got aboard the yacht and crowded on aU 
eteam and started off for New London just as the real chap- 
erons, the mothers of two of the lads, put in an appearance 
on the Peqoot wharf. They waved and waved and shouted, 
but not a whit did we care. We weren't going to put back. 
Young Oraham, of Harvard, shouted ' Very sorry. Take the 
trolley I ' and off we sped at a 20-mile gait for up the river. 
I couldn't ask for any better treatment than I received, and 
my sister Molly stuck close to me to help me out in case I 
got into any trouble. They gave me the most comfortable 
seat in the boat under an awning in the stem, and when I 
said the water was apt to make me ill, and a^ed for clam 
broth (I'd had no breakfast), the steward brought me some 
of the best I ever tasted. It went to the right spot, I can 
tell you ! And on that I ate a few crackers and toyed with 
some pale de foie gras, and the sea air and all revived my 
drooping spirits in great shape. 

" MoUy presraited all the girls one by one. Th^ were all 
good enough looking, were it not for the unpleasantly t^ing 
colored ribbons they wore. Several of them kissed me. Gad ! 
Just what they did to ' Charlie's Aunt ' I said to myself. 
But I didn't enjoy it at all, because I was ' all of a tremmer ' 
lest thev should get on to my fake disgnise ; so I pretended 
to be a little seasick, and retired to the cabin. 

" Presently Molly came down and said, ' Annt, dear, we 
are going under the bridge now; won't yon come oat on 

" Then on the stairs she punched me and whispered, ' Nov, 
Will, do be careful. Don't b^n to shout when you catch 
sight of the crew, and don't offer to bet' 

" Well, I went out on deck, and they placed my chair in 
the bow, in the best possible place to see, and put a f ootetool 
under my feet. Fellows, I tried my best to be calm and easy, 
but the air, and the sight of the yachts, and the clam broth, 
— and the thundering excit^nent I always felt, and always 
shell feel as a patriotic son of Eli, just before a race at New 
IJondon, What chap can help giving a veil as the 'VarsitT 
slips out across the river wim that perfect, smooth, equal, 


142 die ^peafcet 

beautiiul stroke? And I know, for I have been there. They 
put on a little extra finish, — the Pharisees, w they came into 
line, — ^jnst aa a thoroughbred race horse will prance and 
dance, and feel the keen delight of it all, as he goes to the 
post. And there, boya, were four of my old crew : the Dwarf, 
— how his muscles shone that day ! Oh, the Dwarf is a whole 
crew just in himself ; handsome as a picture, strong as an ox, 
calm and confident as — as a New Haven oyster I You can't 
lose with the Dwarf in the boat. And— for me to sit there 
in my aunf s dress and see him, and Sawyer, and Bliss, and 
Parrwh, — four of my old crew, and not yell ! — and not get 
up and let 'em know their old cox'. Little Jack, was there 
with his eye on 'em ! and with 'em just the same as if he was 
in the boat, and rboting for 'em — ^wdl, it was madness ! Boys, 
the tears rolled down my cheeks, I was so excited, and I had 
to suppress it, and my sister said it was the bright sunlight, 
and made me pat up a parasol I And when she gave it to me 
she was trembling like a leaf. 

" And then out came Harvard, in very good s^le, too, and 
lined up alongside ; and there was bat a little delay, and then 
— they were of! I Harvard jumped away with the lead, bat it 
didn't last long, and Yale slowly walked up. 

"Well, when Yale forged a foot or two ahead, I could 
stand it no longer. I jumped up on my chair and yelled, 
' Yale, — Yale, — ^Yale, — Brekity Kei, — coax, coax, — got *em 
again — got 'em again I Paraboloo, — ^Ya-ale 1 1 ' Then I eat 
down in a hnrry, and you ought to hare seen my Harvard 
friends! You know what a voice I've got, developed by 
coaching, — it reached across the river, and the Dwarf heard 
it, and I could see his old jaws grin vrith delight, and you 
chaps on the ' moving grand stand ' heard it and yelled back, 
and things became quiet again until the last quarter mile, for 
Yale was gaining every stroke, and it was another dead 
cinch I 

" But consternation reigned on our yacht I N^ot only on 
account of the race, but on account of me. My sister said it 
was only a ' paroxysm,' — whatever that was — and she pinched 
my arm, pretending to soothe me, until I nearly yelled again 1 
She pulled the ehawl close around my neck, and stuck a hat- 
pin into me, and with it all I could see she was half fright- 
ened, half convulsed with laughter. 

" ' Your aact seems quite (deposed to give vent to ber m- 
thusiasm,' said Paton, the owner of the yacht, one of the 


Cbe ^eaitei 143 

Harv&rd men, to my aieter. ' But I hope yon will persnade 
her — as this is a Harvard yacht, we would prefer not to en- 
courage Yale.' 

" ' She has a nephew there now at Tale. She's not well. 
I am sorry to say that we are obliged — er — it is very embar- 
Tassing — a private aeylnm, yon know.' 

" ' Oh, I'm very sorry.' 

" Ueanwhile I was rocking to and fro in my chair, mj head 
bent down moetly to my knees, and a Harvard man leaned 
down and made my blood ran cold by calmly whispering in 
my ear, ' Yell all you want to, Eli. We've a plan to " do " 
yon up later, and you may as well have all the fun you can 
out of it now ! ' 

" Ooing back down the harbor to the Pequot, they set up a 
handsome lunch on board, and I knew the jig was up and 
something bad was in store for me. (I didn't toll my sister 

" When th^ got back to the Pequot, as I was the last one 
to step into the laonch, to go ashore, Qad I a Harvard man 
quietly gave me a sud^n jerk, and over I went, head first, 
into the water. 

" The naphtha launch sputtered off ashore, leaving me to 
clamber up the shiny white sides of the Fairy, swim ashore, 
or go down and see tiie oyst^s below. The sailors aboard 
the yacht looked over the side and grinned at me. Indeed, 
I must have been a healthy looking object I My bonnet came 
oS in the water, and, with a curse at them for not throwing 
me a rope, off I started for shore, and it happened the nearest 
shore was the Fort Qriswold, or eastern side. But at the 
moment I didn't care mnch what shore it wan, provided it 
was shore. I was used to the water, but it was deuced cold 
out there at the mouth of the harbor, and the wavee were 
pretty high, too. I was glad enongh to hear a familiar voice 
call out to me, after a few minutes' swim, * Hello, Jack, ia 
that yon F ' It was Boots Page and a lot of people on the 
Osprey, and theypicked me up. 

" They said, ' well, where in thunder did you come from ? 
And what in creation are yon doing in that ng? ' 

"I told them I was out for a swim in a hired bathing 


144 Cbe 9peaitec 

The Advocate's First Plea* 


[Vliat Mr. McCnteheon writes is alwajs read wiQi interest, 
for his is the unusual gift of maintaining a dramatic si^ 
nation. Ttiis story speaks for itself. Beprinted from 
iicClure's Magazine by permission of the publishers.} 

t seems strangely co-incident that, on Uie day 
Edward Grey first entered the court room as a 
full-fledged attorney, his younger brother should 
be there as a witness — a witness in a case wherein 
a man was being tried for forgery. The 

brothers had gone to the court room together, 

the elder leading the way with the importance of his position, 
the younger following in some trepidation, full of inquiry 
as to how he should act, what he should do. 

When Frank Orey stepped into the big court room for the 
first time in his life, he knew no more of its etiquette than 
if he had been an untutored savage. His brother, upon 
whom be looked with respect and awe, had told him nothing 
except that it was the home of justice, of truth, and of dig- 
nity, and instructed him to see that nothing but the tmtii 
was told. 

The case on trial was of considerable prominence. A cash- 
ier, holding a responsible position in a large mercantile estab- 
lishment, had forged the name of a customer and had drawn 
the money, intending to replace it and destroy the check be- 
fore discovery. His plans had gone awry, and he was 
arrested. Prank Grey, the boy, was in the store when the 
sergeant of police served the warrant on the forger, and 
heard every word of the conversation which passed betweoi 
them. He was Bnbp<Enaed by the defendant, who wished by 
him to disprove certain all^ations made by the o£Qcer. 

The case of the State vs. Soyal was called. The usual pre- 
liminariee were rushed through, the indictment read, and the 
opening statement made by the prosecuting attorney before 
Frank quite understood what was happening. Several vit- 

• Coprrlsfat, & & UaOnra Co. 


COe ^ealtet 145 

nesaee were introdaced, examined, and croas-examined, prov- 
ine the fact that the signature vas a forgery, and then the 
pcmce sergeant was called to the stand. 

The o&er was asked to give in sabstance the conTersation 
which had passed between him and Royal, the accused man. 

" You want me to give hia very words ? " said the sergeant 

" Yea, sir ; if yoa can." 

"Well, he said this: 'I just had to have $35 that nighL 
I had been gambling and had to pay my losses or be kicked 
ont of the clnh — I belong to the " Bear Club." ' " 

Frank heard this statetnent with growing wonder. His 
astonished eyes wandered from the witness to the prisoner, 
and his strong yonng voice cried out boldly : 

" He didn't say that at all. He said — " 

" Silence I " shouted the astonished conr^ and two bailifb 
harried toward the dissenter threateningly. 

"I ask to have this young man ejected ftom the court 
room," cried the State's attorney. The sergeant of police 
looked guiltily defiant, the prisoner's face lit up, and a whole 
room fnll of people strained their necks to see the owner of 
the disturbing voice. 

" Well, he Tied, that's all 1 Mr. Royal didn't say that— he 
said he had to have it because his wife had been sick two 
months, and the doctor wouldn't come to see her any more if 
he didn't pay him. I heard him say it, Judge." 

" Take him from the room, sherin I I never heard of each 
impudence in all my life." 

" But I'm a witneea," stammered the boy. He was looking 
at the court manfully. 

" Thaf s enough, sir I Is it possible that you do not know 
enough to observe order in a court room ? Where do you 
come from? I shall attend to your case in a few moments, 
sir. You cannot disturb the order of this court with impnn- 
i^ — why I never heard of such a thing!" blustered ibs 
judge, and to see his expression was to believe him. 

By this time liie young boy's face was white and drawn. 
A sharp glance at the white face of his brother — a glanoe 
which was a prayer for help — showed him that he was alone 
in the fight. As the court concluded his last exclamation the 
boy's lips trembled, his teeth clashed together sullenly, and 
his angry voice rang out with : 

" Oh, I don't core, you darned old fool I " 

There followed a moment's silence. Scoree of fiyes peered 


146 Cbe %peaktt 

at tbe boy ; then they turned toward the judge, upon vhoee 
featoreB grew tfae blue of rage. His eyes were glaring down 
npoD the boy ominously. 

" Young man, you haie committed an indiscretion which 
cannot be overlooked; you hare outraged this bench of jus- 
tice. I do not know who you are, but yon surely have not 
been reared with an abeolnte diBr^ard for the respect due 
to age and to men who occupy such positions aa ^lat held 
by ^is court. It will be a painful duhr for me to fine you 
and to send jou to jail. But I firmly believe it is the only 
course to pursue where one of your age commits an act euch 
as you have committed." 

Frank's sudden burst of uncontrollable weeping interrppt- 
ed the court at this juncture. The poor boy threw his arm 
upon the table beside which he sat, and his body shook witb 
pitiful Bobs, Before the judge could resume his reprimand, 
the tall, unsteady figure of that deserting brother arose, and 
his bloodless lips moved stiffly as if they were uttering words. 
No sound, however, came from them. There was a supreme 
effort put forth. One hand clutched the back of the chair 
against which his stiff legs braced themselves, and these words 
came out in strange, unnatural tones, clear and strong, as if 
some unusual power produced them. 

" Your Honor, I beg your indulgence for a moment. If 
a penalty must be infiicted for the dishonor shown to this 
court, I feel that all the punishment should fall upon another 
and more deserving head. Your Honor, upon me should be 
cast all the blame, all the indignant reproaches brought about 
by this unfortunate occurrence. It was I who, knowing full 
well the conduct he should have pursued during the hours 
when justice reigns, refused through an unbrotherly exalta- 
tion of my own superiority, to respond to his eager questionB 
when he sought for information. I revelled in my knowledge 
and in his ignorance. He had never se^i a court room be- 
fore; knew nothing of its rules, its exactions. He has never 
told a lie, that I swear. Not all tbe power on earth could 
make my brother utter a falsehood. What he interposed 
during me testimony of that witness was true, absolutely 
true, or he would not have said it. His blunder in crying 
out was due to his own uncovered honesty, and to my injunc- 
tion to tell the truth.. He knew nothing, may it please your 
Honor, save that a lie was being told, and his heart cried out 
the truth. I am to blame for his first mistake. For the sec- 


Clie ^peabet 147 

ond — the insult to the court — nature itself mast be held 
accountable. I ask yon to go back to the day vhen you were 
of hia age. Your heart bursting with injury to your boyish 

Eride, you would have felt as he did — ^you might have done as 
e did. Can you again feel Hie insufferable rankling of 
pride, of scorned immaturity in your heart — ^yon, a jud^ of 
men and all Uieir emotions? Go back, yonr Honor, to the 
days when your very soul burned with the fires of resentment, 
and have pi^ on this offender. He is innocent of a wrong 
intention. He would not show the least dishonor to you or 
to any man on earth, had he not felt that a man — that pris- 
oner — was being haiahly treated. He is honest; he is a boy, 
a boy such as yon were ; such as all of these men were; sndi 
aa I who speak to you. I ask yon not to pnniah him, for he 
would never forget the disgrace. I ask you to suspend fur- 
ther reprimand and allow me to take him from the room 
ontil he is asked to come and tell bis honest story under oath. 
What more yon might say to him could have no more weight 
than what yon have said. Your first command, ' Silence 1 ' 
cmehed him. It was sufficient for the tender, untried heart 
He feels as you felt when yon were a boy, your Honor ! " 

The stiff figure relaxed, the pleading white face dropped 
forward, as if unsupported; the tall frame sank into the 
chair, and the advocate's first plea was over. He had won his 
poiB^ bat be did not hear the plaudits, for he had fainted ! 


etc Speaker 
The Tell-Tale Heart 


T^Biml — ^Dervoos — very, very, dreadfully nerrooB I 
I had been and am; but why will yon say I am 
I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily — 
1 how calmly — I can tell you the whole stosry. 
I It is impoesible to say how first the idea eo- 
' tered my brain ; but once conceived, it haunted 
me day and night Object, there was none. Faseion, there 
was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. 
He had never given me insult. For hie gold I had no deeiie. 
I think it was his eye ! Yes, it was this I One of his eyea 
resembled that of a vulture — a pale blue eye, with a film over 
it. Whenever it fell upon me my blood ran cold ; and so by 
degrees — very gradually — I made up my mind to take the 
life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever. 

You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But yon 
should have seen me. You sboold have seen bow wisely I 
proceeded, with what caatioD, with what foresight, with what 
dissimulation, I went to work I I was never kinder to the old 
man than during the whole week before I killed him. And 
every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door 
and opened it — oh, so gently ! And then, when I had made 
an opening suflScient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all 
closed, closed so that no light shone oat, and then I thrust 
in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cun- 
ningly I thrust it in! I moved it slow^ — ^very, very slowly, 
so £at I might not disturb the old man's sleep. 

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautions 
in opening the door. To think that there I was, opening the 
door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret 
deeds or thoughts. 

I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when 
my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man 
sprang up in Uie bed, crying out : " Who's there ? " 

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I 
did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear 
him lie down. 

Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the 
groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of 
grief — oh, no 1 It was the low, stifled sound that arises from 


Ctie %pealiet 149 

the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew 
the Bonnd well. 

When I had waited a long time, Teiy patiently, without 
hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little — a very, 
very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it — 'Von can- 
not imagine how stealthUy, stealthily, — until at leugtb a 
single ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the 
crevice and fell upon the vulture eye. 

It was open — wide, wide open — and I grew farions as I 
gazed upon it I saw it with perfect distinctness — all a dxill 
blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow 
in my bones ; but I could see nothing else of the old man's 
face or person, for I had directed the ray, ae if by instinct, 
precisely apon the spot 

Now, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such 
as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that 
sound well, too. It was the breathing of the old man's heart 
It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the 
soldier into courage. 

But even yet I refrained and kept still. The beating grew 
louder, I say, louder, every moment ; do yon mark me well ? 

And now a new anxiety seized me — the sound could be 
heard by a neighbor t The old man's hour had come t With a 
loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. 
He shrieked once — once only. In an instant I dragged him 
to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then 
smiled gayly to find the deed so far done. He was stone 
dead. His eye would trouble me no more. 

If still yon think me mad, yon will think so no longer when 
I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment 
of the body. Firat of all, I dismembered the corpse. I then 
took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber and 
deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the 
boards ho cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye — not 
even his — could have detected anjrthing wrong. 

When I had made an end of these labors it was four o'clock 
— still dark as midnight As the bell sounded the hour 
there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to 
open it with a light neart — for what had I now to fear? 
Then entered three men, who introduced themselves, with 
perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been 
heard by a neighbor during the night; suspicion of foul play 
had been aroused ; information had been lodged at the police 
offlce, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the 


150 Cfie Speaker 

I smiled, for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemeo 
welcome. The shriek, I said, wae my own in a dr^im. The 
old man, I motioned, was absent in the conntr;. I took 
m; visitors all over the hoose. I bade them search — seanh 
well. I led them at length to hie chamber. I ahowed them 
his treasures, secure, nndiBtnihed. In the enthusiasm of my 
confidence I brought chairs into the room, and desired them 
here to rest from their fatigue, while I myself, in the wild 
audacity of my perfect trinmph, placed my own seat npon the 
ve^ spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim. 

The officers were satisfied. Mj manner had convinced 
them. I was singnlarly at ease. But ere long I felt myself 
getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I 
f anci^ a ringing in my ears ; but still they sat and still chat- 
ted. The ringing became more distinct; it continued, and 
gained definiteness — until at length I found that the noise 
was not within my ears. 

No doubt I grew very pale ; but I talked more fluently, and 
with a heightened voice. Tet the sound increased — and what 
conid I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound — much such a 
sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped 
for breath — and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more 

3aickly — ^more vehemently ; but the noise steadily increased, 
arose and argued about trifles, in a high key, and with vio- 
lent gesticulaUona ; but the noise steadily increased. Why 
would tiiey not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with 
heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the 
men — but the n<rise steadily increased. God I what could 
I do ? I foamed, I raved, I swore I I swung the chair upon 
which I had been sitting, and grated it npaa the boards, out 
the noise arose over all and contimially mcreaeed. It grew 
londer — ^louder — louder. And still the men chatted pleas- 
ant and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? 

They heard! — they suspected 1 — ^they knew! — they were 
making a mocking of my horror 1 This I thought, and this 
I think. Bat anything was better than this agony 1 Any- 
thing was more tolerable than this derision I I can bear those 
hypocritical smOes no longer ! I felt that I mnst scream or 
die! — and now — again!— iarkl louder! louder! louder! 

" Villains ! " I shrieked, " dissemble no more 1 I admit die 
deed — tear up the planks ! Here ! Here I It is the tieating of 
his hideous heart I " 


Cfie speaker isi 

The Trial of Ben Thomas 


[This cntting is from " De Valley an' de Shadder," one of 
the short stories inclnded in "The Two BanaTsys," pab- 
Usbed b; The Centnry Company, New York, and is here 
reproduced by permisBlon of the aathor and of the publish- 
ers. Mr. Edwards made this story one Qomber of his pro- 
gram of anther's readings giien through an eztenslTe tear of 
the South, and it has been used succeesfaUy in declamation 

^^|^^%r was a sultry noon, and Jeffersonville was brisk. 
Bl 1 ^ Jeffersonville is brisk only during court week, 
]Xl A it n"iy be inferred that court was in seaBion. 
iwJbpM About the large, square building little groups 
fldOOp of farmers were gathered. Witmn were the 
mShSmI usual courthouse habitu6a, — jurors who hope in 
vain to "get off," and citizena of limited income who yet 
hope to " ^ on." 

Apparently, there was nothing exciting on hand just then 
though a murder trial had been intemtpted by a temporary ' 
adjournment But the defendant was a negro, and a murder 
by a negro was not a novelty. While the court was assem- 
bling, ttte curious might have noted the prisoner's points. 
His face, if it had any marked characterifitic, was noted 
chiefly for its inexpressive lines, and its appearance waa one 
of supreme indifference. His btout, heavy frame was clad in 
a common jean suit stained with months of wear, and his 
kinky hair was sprinkled with gray. He sat quietjy, allow- 
ing bis eyes to roam from face to face as the genial conversa- 
tion drifted aboat in the groups around him. He was evi- 
dently not impressed by any sense of peril, though, when the 
court had adjourned, a clear case of murder had been proved 
against him, and only his statement and the argument re- 

Slowly the court assembled. The prisoner's counsel had 
introducied no testimony. A man had been stabbed by his 
client, had fallen dead, his hand clasped over the wound; 


153 Cbe %peaUt 

and a knife had dropped, which the defendanfa wife bad 
adzed and coooealed. This had been proved b; the staters 

The prisoner took the stand to make his statement Se 
declared emphatically that the deceased, knife in hand, had 
assaulted hiia, and that he had killed him in self-defense; 
that the knife which fell from the relaxing hand was the 
dead man's. He told the stoiy simply, and as he began it 
a tall, thick-aet gentleman in a gray aoit, walking with the 
aid of a stout stick, entered the room and stood silently at 
the door. As the prisoner resumed his seat, the newcomer 
entered within the rail. He shook hands gravely with a 
number of the older lawyers, and took the Band the court 
extended to him across the desk. Then he turned, and, to the 
astonishment of eTCiy one, shook hands with the defendant^ 
into whose face a light had suddenly dawned, which resolved 
itaelf into a broad, silent grin. This done, the old goitleman 
seated himself near the defendant's lawyer, and, leaning 
heavily on his massive cane, listened attentively to the speech. 

The speaker was not verbose. He rapidly summed up, and 
laid the caee before the jury in its beat light Beally there 
was not much to be said, and he soon reached hia peroratioa. 
He pictured the blasted home of the n^ro ; his wife and babe 
deprived of his labor ; and dwdt long on the good name he 
hod always borne. After summing up, he took his hat and 
books and retired to a secluded part of Ihe room. 

The prosecuting attorney arose, and, with a few cold 
words, swept away the cobwebs of the case. " The man bad 
stabbed another wantonly. If the knife were the property of 
the deceased, why was it not produced in court ? The def end- 
anfs wife bad picked it up." 

He passed the case to the jury, and the judge prepared to 
deliver his chaise, when the old gentleman in gray rose to 
his feet " If jour Honor please, the prisoner is entitled to 
ihe closing, and, in the absence of other counsel, I beg you to 
mark my name for the defendant." 

"Mr. Clerk," said the court, "mark General Robert 
Thomas for the defence." The silence was absolute; some- 
thing new was coming. Only this old man, gray, grim, and 
majestically defiant, stood between the negro and the grave. 

" The knife that was found by the dead man's side was his 
own. He had drawn it before he was stabbed. Ben Thomas 
is a brave man, a strong man; he would not have osed a 


weapon apon him unarmed." Aa he spoke he drew from his 
boBom a long, keen knife, and rested its point gently on the 

"It has been asked, 'Where is the dead man's knife?' Let 
me give yOD m; theory : When Bill Fowler staggered back 
nnd£r the blow of Ben Thomas, clntching his wound, and 
the knife fell to the ground, the lightning's flash was not 
mucker than the change bom in a moment in the bosom of 
titat erring woman, the unwitting cause of the tragedy. Up 
to this time she had been weak and yielding ; she had tnmed 
aside from the little home to gamble with strange men. In 
Uie awfu! moment of that tragedy, when the dancers stood 
horrified, this woman became, by an inspiration, a wife again. 
Deceived herself, she caught up the tell-tale knife, and hurled 
it into the swamp, destroying endoice of her husband's inno- 
cence when she thought to have destroyed one proof of his 
gnilt. This, I say, is a theory. You remember her cry was, 

" Bnt there is another evidence, gentlemen of the jury. 
Should I be forced to aak for a new tnal, it will be developed 
that this poor woman, repentant now, thank God, walked in 
three days, from the scene of that tragedy to my home, sev- 
enty miles, to ask my aid and counsel; tiiat, eluding me at 
Hacon, though footsoie and weary and crazed with grief, she 
returned to the swamp, and, laboring under an excitement 
that brought the scene so vividly to her mind that she was 
enabled to find the knife^ did find it, and bnt that an acci- 
dent to my vehicle delayed me, it would have been produced 
here in evidence — " 

" May it please your Honor, mnch as I dislike to interrupt 
the honorable genueman, I do not think it is proper to intro- 
dnce with the argument evidence that has not been given 
upon trial." 

" If your Honor [>leaBe, a decision upim such a proposition 
is not needed. I willingly admit all that is claimed. But, 
sir, I offer no evidence, not even this knife, with the name 
of the deceased upon i^ though it comes to me direct from 
the hand of the woman who, it has been proved, snatched 
from under his hand a weapon when he fell to the ground. I 
am bnt arguing a theory to account for the facts that have 
been proved. But, gentlemen of the jury, not upon this 
theory, not upon these facts, do I base tiie assertion that the 
3 had a knife in his hand when he made the assault 


lu ct)e ^eakec 

I speak from a knowledge of men. Bea Thomas would never 
have stabbed an unarmed man. Why do I say this? Be- 
cause I know he is as brave a man as ever faced death ; a 
faithfol man, a powerful man, and conscious of lus power. 
Such men do not use weapons upon unarmed assailants. I 
speak to men who reason. True reasoning with such is as 
strong as proof. A brave man who is full of strength never 
draws a weapon to repel a single assailant. The defendant 
drew, when ne saw a glittering weapon in the hand of his 
foe, — not from fear, because he could have fled, but to equal- 
ize the combat 

" Why do I say he is brave? Every man on this jury shoul- 
dered his musket during the war. Most of you followed the 
Jamented Pickett. Some, perhaps, were at Qettysbui^. I 
was there, too! I and the only brother God ever gave met 
A part of him is there yet — a part of him, but not all; for 
praise God, we picked up whatever was left of him and 
brought it back to Georgia. I well remember that fight. The 
enemy stood brave and determined, and met our charges with 
a courage and grit that could not be shaken. Line after line 
melted away during those days, and at last came Picketfs 
charge. When that magnificent command went in, a negro 
man, a captain's body-aervant, stood behind it waiting. 

" You know the result. 

" Out of that vortex of Same and that storm of lead and 
iron a handful drifted back. From one to another this msn 
of black skin ran, then returned and followed in the track 
of the charge. On, on he went, on through the smoke and 
flame; on up to the flaming cannon themselves. There he 
bent and lifted a form from the ground. Together they fell 
and rose, until, meeting them half-way, I took the burden 
from the hero and myself bore it on in safety. That burden 
was the senseless form of my brother; gashed and bleeding, 
and mangled, but alive, thank God I And the man who bore 
him out, who came to me with him in his arms, himself shot 
with the fragments of a shell until his great heart was nearly 
dropping from his breast — that man, my friends, eits here 
onder my hand. See if I speak not tiie truth. Do you see 
that sear which marks his breast from left to right ? That 
Bcar was won by a slave in an hour that tried the souls of 
freemen, and pat to its test the best manhood of the South. 
Ko man who wins sach wounds can thrust a knife into on 


Cbe ftpealtec us 

nnanned assailant. I have come aeventf miles in my old 
age to say it" 

It may hare been contrary to the evidence. But the joiy, 
without leaving the room, returned a verdict of "Ifot 

Even This Shall Pass Away 


Once in Persia reigned a king. 
Who upon his signet ring 
'Graved a maxim true and wise, 
Which, if held before the eyea, 
Gave him coansel at a glance, 
Pit for every change and chance. 
Solemn words, and these are they : 
" Even this shall pass away." 

Trains of camels through the aand 
Brought him gems from Samarcand; 
Fleets of galleys Uirough the seas 
Brought him pearls to match with these. 
But he countfKl not his gain 
Treasures of the mine or main ; 
" What is wealth ? " the king would say : 
" Even this shall pass away." 

In the levels of his court 
At the zenitji of the sport, 
When the palms of all his guests 
Burned with dapping at ms jests, 
He, amid his figs and wine, 
Cried, " Oh, loving friends of mine I 
Pleasure comes, but oot to stay ; 
'Evea this shall pass away." 


Cbe ftpeakei 

Fighting on & furious field, 
Om% B. javelin pierced his shield. 
Soldiers vith a loud lament 
Bore him bleeding to his tent; 
Groaning from Iub tortured side, 
" Pain is hard to bear/' he cried, 
" But with patience, day bj day — 
Etoi this ehall pass away." 

Towering in the pablic sqnaie, 
Twen^ cubits in the air, 
Bose his statue, carved in stone. 
Then the king, disguised, unknown, 
Stood before his sculptared name, 
Unsing meekly, " Wnat is fame ? 
Fame is but a slow decay — 
Even this shall pass away." 

Struck with palsy, sere and old. 
Waiting at the gates of gold. 
Said he, with his dying breatti : 
"Life is done, but what is death?" 
Then, in answer to the king, 
Fdl a sunbeam on his ring, 
Showing by a heavenly ray — 
" Even this shall pass away." 

* * 

On MiltOQ 

Three poetA, in three distant ages bom, 
Greece, Italy, and England did adom. 
The first in loftiness of thought surpassed. 
The next in majes^, in both the last: 
The force of Natare conld no further go ; 
3*0 make a third, she joined Qie former two. 



Cbe %iftsktt 167 



^N tluB scene, four characters are iBtrodnced: 
Richelieu, the Minister of France and Cardinal 
of the Church of Rome ; Louis, the King ; Bara^ 
das, the chief conapirator; Juiie, B^elieu'e 

The King and Baradas have planned the 
assasaination of Ricbeliea. The King has also designed to 
many Jalie; but, in order to prevent this, Bichelieu has 
given her in marriage to Adrien de Mauprat, whom Baradas 
has indnced to become the tool in the assassination of 

As De Manprat enters Richelieu's room to commit the 
murder, Bichelieu, having anticipated him, thwarts him in 
his purpose, and then explains to him the treachery of Bara- 
das; whereupon De Uauprat becomes concerned for Biche- 
lien's safe^, and, meeting the conspirators after leaving the 
house, announces to them that BicheLien is dead. 

On the following day the conspirators, together with De 
Hanprat, convene at the King's palace. While here, Baradas, 
iriio has already imprisoned Huguet, a spy, conspires against 
De Mauprat, and finally, by gaining the consent of the king, 
SBcceeds in having him also imprisoned in the Bastile. 

And now, as the king and tiie conspirators are rejoicing 
over the Buppoeed deau of Bichelieu, and are discussing 
plans as to the best disposition of public offices, Bichelieu 
enters and says : 

Rich, [fiercely.] Room, my lords, room. 

The Minister of France can need no int^ession with the 
Louis. What means this false report of death. Lord Cai- 

Rich. Are you, then, angered. Sire, that I live still? 

Louis. No ; but such artifice 

Rich. Not mine ; look elsewhere, Louis ! 
My castle swarmed with the assassins. 
Bar. [advancing.] We have punished tliem already. 
Huguet now 


158 ebt ftpeakfi 

In the Baatile. Oh ! my lord, we were prompt 
To avenge jou — we were. 

Rich. We? Ha, ha I you hear, 
My liege I What page, man, in the last court gran 
Uade yon a ploral? Coont, you hare seized the hireling j 
Sire, wall I name the master P 

Louis. Tosh, my lord* 

The old contrivance ; ever does yonr wit 
Invent assafisins, that ambition may 
SUy rivalfl 

Rich. Rivals, Sire, in whatP 
Service to France? I have none. Livea the man 
Whom Europe deems rival to Armand Bidielien? 

Louis. What, bo haughty I 
Bemember, he who made, can oimiake. 

Rich. Never I 

Never I Your anger can recall your trust. 
Annul my office, spoil me of my lands. 
Rifle my coffers — but my name, my deeds 
Axe loyal in the land beyond your scepter. 
Pass sentence on me, if yon will ; from Kings 
Lo 1 I appeal to time 1 

Louit. {motions to Baradas and turns haiighiUi/ to iht 
Cardifiai.']Eiiaagh I 
Your Eminence must excuse a longer audience. 
To your own palace : for our conference, this 
Nor place, nor season. 

Rich. Qood, my liege, for Justice 
Alt place a temple, and all season summer 1 
Do yon deny me justice ? Saints of heaven ! 
He turns from me ! Do you deny me justice? 
For fifteen years, while in these hands dwelt Empii^ 
The humblest craftsman, the obscurest Tassal, 
The very leper shrinking from the sun. 
Though loathed by Charity, might ask for justice 1 
Not with the fawning tone and crawling mien 
Of some I see around yon— Coonts and Princes 
Kneeling for favors; but erect and loud, 
As men who ask man's rights ! — My liege, my Ixniis, 
Do yon refuse me justice — audience even — 
In tiie pale presence of the baffled Murder? 

Louis. Lord Cardinal, one by one you have serered from 


The bonds of human love; all near and dear 
Marked ont for Tengeance — ezile or the scaffold. 
Tod find me nov amidst my trnstiest friends, 
My closest kindred. Yon wonld tear them from me ; 
They murder yon, forsooth, since me they love. 
Enough of plots and treasons for one reign. 
Home ! home I and sleep away these phwtoms. 

Rich. Siret 

I — patience. Heaven 1 Sweet Heaven 1 Sire, from the foot 
Of that Great Throng these hands have raised aloft 
On an Olympus, looking down on mortab 
And worshipped by their awe — before the foot 
Of that high throne, spurn you the gray-haired man 
Who gave you empire — and now sues for safety? 

Louis. No; when we aee your Eminence in truth 
At the foot of the throne, weTl listen to you. 
[Exit King and fmin.] 

Rick. Goddess of bright dreams. 
My country — sbalt thou lose me now, when moat 
Thou need'st thy worshipper P My native land I 
Let me but ward this danger from thy heart, 
And die — but on thy boeom. 

{Enter Jviie."] 

Jviie. Heaven 1 I thank thee 1 
It cannot be, or this all-powerful man 
Would not stand idly thus. 

Rich. Julie de Manprat, what dost thou here? 

Julie. Home ! — is Adrien there ? You're dumb, yet atrive 
For words ; 1 see them trembling on your lips. 
But choked by pity. It was truth — all truth ! 
Seized — the Bastile — and in your presence, tool 
Cardinal, where is Adrien ? Tbtuk I he saved 
Yoar life; yonr name is infamy, if wrong 
Should come to bis ! 

Rich. Be soothed, child. 

Juiie. Child no more. 
I love, and I am woman 1 Hope and suffer : 
Love, suffering, hope — what else doth make the strength 
And majesty of woman ? 
I ask thee for my home, my fate, my all I 
Where is my husband ? 


160 Cfie 9peaket 

Rich. Yoa &re Richelieu's vard, 

A soldier'B bride ; they who insist on truth 
Most out>f &ce fear : you ask me for your husband ? 
There, -where the clouds of heaven look darkest o'er 
The domes of the Bastile 1 

Julie. 0, mercy, mert^ I 

Save him, restore him, father t Art thou not 
The Cardinal King? Uie lord of life and death. 
Art thou not BicheUeu ? 

Rich. Yesterday I W8»; 

To-day a very weak old man ; to-morrow, 
I know not what 

[Enter ClermontJ] 

Cler. Madame de Uauprat I 
Pardon, your Eminence; even now I seek 
This lady's home commanded by the King 
To pray her presence. 

Rich. To those who s^t yon I 

And say you found the virtue they woold slay 
Here, couched apon this heart, as at an altar. 
And sheltered by the wings of sacred Bconel 
Be gone I 

[Enter Baradas.'] 

Bar. My lord, the King cannot bdieve yonr Bminenoe 
So far foigete your doty, and his greatnees. 
As to resist his mandate— Pray you, madame, 
Ob^ the King; no caoae for fear. 

Julie. My father I 

SicA. She shall not stir! 

Bar. Yoa are not of her kindled ; 

An orphan 

Rich. And her country is her motiier. 

Bar. The coontry is the King. 

Rich. Aye, is it so? 

Then wakes the power which in the age of iron 
Bursts forth to cnrb the great, and raise the low. 
Mark, where she stands : aronnd her form I draw 
The awful circle of our solemn Church 1 
Set but a foot within that holy ground. 
And on thy head — ^yea, thoo^ it wore a crown — 
I launch toe curse of Borne I 


Cfiie Speaker 

Bar. I daie not brave yoa; 

I do but Bpeak the orders of my Eiiig: 
The Church, your rank, power, very word, my lord. 
Suffice yon for resietance ; blame yourself. 
If it should cost your power. 

RiA. Tbaf 8 my stake. Ah! 

Dark gamester I vhat i» thine f Zjook to it well — 
Lose not a trick. By this same boor to-morrow 
Tbon shalt have Fraoce, or 1 1^ head I 

Bar. In sooth, mj lord, 

Yoa do need rest; the bardens of the state 
O'ertask yon health. [Aside.'] His mind 

And life are breaking fast. 

Rich. [Overbearing him.] Irreverent ribald 1 
If 80, beware the falling ntins I Hark I 
I tell thee, scomer of these whitening hairs, 
AThoi this snov melteth there shall come a flood I 
Avanntl my name is Richelieu — ^I defy thee I 

Flower in the Crannied Wall 

Flower in the crannied wall, 

I'lduck you out of the crannies, 

I hold TOQ here, root and all, in my hand, 

Idttle flower — but if I could understand 

What Ton are, root and all, and all in all, 

I Bhoold knoT irtiat God and man is. 


Cte Aptakn 

The Burgomaster's Death 

(From " The Bells" translated from the French of Erd^ 
mann and Ghatrian.) 

(SoBKE. A room in the Burgomaster'a home. Table and 
chair, B. Candle, lighted, od the table. Chair L. Couch at 
back. Enter Matbias L. Cautiously locks door, and puts 
k^ in his pocket) 

T LAST I am alone t ETeiythiDg goes well. 
Christian, the gradarme, is to-ni^t made my 
son-in-law; m; darling child, Annette, is now 
firmly settled for life ; and so vanishes fUl fear 
from me. To-night I shall sleep without a ter- 
ror haunting me. Ah 1 what a power it is, to 
know how to guide your destiny in life 1 You must hold 
good cards in your hands 1 good cards t as I have done ; and, 
if you play them well, you may defy ill-fortune. (Bevelers 
heard singing outside. Taking off coat) Ha! ha I ha! 
these jolly topera have got all they want What holes in the 
snow they will make, before they reach their homes ! Drink ! 
drink I la it not s^ange? To drink, and drown every re- 
morse. (Pouring out wine.) But does it (sitting) drown 
remorse? Does it drown the memory of that night, fifteen 
years ago? (Raises glass to his lips.) What is the date? 
(Puts down glass ; very much affected.) God ! 'tis the same 
— this night exactly; and just such a night. Mathias, 
Mathiast if your friends who respect you only knew the 
secret that has been at your heart for years! If your wife 
and child knew that what raised them from poverty to afflu- 
ence was crime — was mur — ah — I — walls have ears ! 
How cold I am 1 (Drinks.) Yet I could not help it Why 
did the Jew come to my inn, when the clouds of pover^ 
hung most heavily over our house? Why did he come, with 
that belt full of gold, to tempt me? I could not see my 
loved ones tamed out on the roadside the next day in the 
bitter winter cold. No one who is human could — (Starts 
up, listening, with terror.) Bells I bells! (Runs to window, 
and looks out) No one on tlie road. (Comes forward.) 
What is this jangling in my ears? Wliat is to-ni^t? Ah I 
it ie to-night— tm (/clock — the very hour! (Clock strikes 


Cbe %peabet i68 

ten.) I feel a darkneSE coming over me. (Lights down.) A 
sensatioii of giddiness seizes mel (Staggers to a chair, B.) 
Shall I call for help ? No, no, Uathias ! have courage ! The 
Jew is dead. Hov Inckj Z decided to sleep by myself to- 
night I Pshaw ! it is only my fancy that I heard the sound 
of the Jew's sleigh-bells — it is only fancy I I am safe 1 The 
people about here are such idiots, th^ suspect nothing. I 
am nerrouB to-night. It was that Parisian fellow — the mee- 
merist — at the fair tonJay, who is the cause of it all. When 
he wanted to send me to sleep, as well as the others, I said 
to myself, ' Stop, stop, Mathias ! This sending you to sleep 
may be an invention of the devil ; you might relate, certain 
incidents of your past life ! You must be cleverer than that, 
Mathias; you must be cleverer than that!" (Starting up, 
and crossing L.) You will die an old man yet, Mathias, and 
(taking snuS) the most respected in the province. Only 
this, since you dream, and are apt to talk in your dreams, for 
the future you sleep alone in this room, the door locked, and 
the key safe in your pocket. (Goes to table, unlocks drawer, 
and takes out girdle. ) That girdle did ua a good turn ; with- 
out it — without it we were ruined. If Catherine only imew — 
poor, poor Catberine ! (Sobs; head falls forward on his arms, 
on the table. Belle heard. Mathias starts up, and goes to 
window.) Hie bells! the bells again! They must come 
from the mill. (Looks oat) N'o ; the wheel is stopped, and 
the mill is in dukness. (Bells cease.) The bells stop. It 
must be fancy — it must be fancy. How that night comes 
back to me ! We were just seated at a game of cards, down- 
stairs, when, as the old clock struck ten, the sound of horse- 
bells was heard; a sledge stopped before the door, and al- 
most immediately afterward the Polish Jew entered. He 
was a well-made, vigorous man, betwem forty and fifty 
years of age. I fancy, even now, I can see him entering the 
door, with bis green cloak and his fur cap, his large black 
beard, and his great boots, covered with hare-skin. He was 
a seed-merchant. He sajre, as he comes in, " Peace be with 
you ! " I ask him, " What can I do for you P " But the Jew, 
without relying, first opens bis cloak, and then unbuckles 
a girdle, which he wore around his waist This he throws 
upon the table, and I hear the ringing sound of gold — gold I 
Inen he says, " The snow is deep, the road difficult; put my 
horse in the stable. In one hour, I shall continue my jour- 
n^." After that he drinks his wine, without speaking to 
any one, and sits like a man depressed and anxions about bia 


164 Cbe ^pealtet 

affaire. At eleven o'clock the night watchman comes in. 
Eiery one then goee to his home, and the Jew and I are left 
alone. (Comes iorword.) The next morning the; find the 
Jew's horse dead nnder the old bridge, and a hundred yards 
farther on, his green cloak and fur cap — stained — with— 
blood. (Looks around.) But what became of the Jew him- 
self has never to this day been discovered. (Laughs grimly ; 
sits, R.) Fools ! (Pours out wine.) They never suspected 
that I had anything to do with his disappearance. (iJrinks, 
and risea.) The room is growing cold, and my eyes are get- 
ting heavy. (Lies on couch, at back.) I'll He here aw£le. 
Hal ha! Mathias, have no fear; you have played your game 
well I Sleep in peace, then. You have triumphed, and con- 
science is at rest — at rest. (Sleeps. Chorus of revelers 
heard, more faintly. Mathias begins to move restlessly In 
his sleep. Sleeping.) I say, no. A man cannot be con- 
demned npon such supposition. You must have proofs. I 
do not hear the sound of bells. (Bells.) It is the blood, 
rushing to my brain — this jangling in my ears. Christian, 
I have made you my son ; I have made yoa rich ; come and 
defend me I My honor is your honor. Come to me, Chris- 
tianl (Pause.) Take away the mesmerist! — bb eyes bum 
into my soul I He shall not put me to sleep — he shall not I 
(Pause. UaUiiaa sits up on couch, his eyes open, with the 
vacant stare of one in sleep. He rises to his feet, comes 
forward, and speaks in a low, hollow voice.) You command 
me to tell the stoiy of my crime. So be it 

It is the night of the 24th of December, 1818; the hour 
half-past eleven. The people are leaving the inn ; Catherine 
and little Annette have gone to resL One man, Caspar, 
comes in. He tells me the lime-kiln is lighted. I answer 
him, "It is well; go to bed; I will see to the kiln." He 
leaves me. I sm alone with the Jew, who is warming him- 
self by the stove. Without all is at rest. No sound is 
heard, except, from time to time, the Jew's horse, under the 
shed, when he shakes his bells. (Stops, as if thinking.) I 
must have money. If I have not three thousand francs by 
the aist, the inn will be taken from me. There is no one 
stirring; it is night; there are two feet of snow npon the 
ground; and the Jew will follow the high road alone. 
(After a short silence.) Bnt he is strong. He would defend 
himself well, should any one attack him. (In a low voice.) 
He looks at me. He has gray eyes. (As if speaking to him- 


Cbe speaker iss 

Belf.) I muBt Btrike the blow 1 (Decidedly.) Tee, yes I I 
will strike the blow ! IwillriBkit! (Pause.) I must, how- 
ever, look around. The eight is dark ; it still snows ; no one 
would trace my footsteps in the snow. (Baisee hia hand, as 
if feeling for something.) Let me see if he carriee any pis- 
tole in hie sledge. No, no; there is nolhiDg; nothing at all. 
I can risk it I (He listens.) All is silent in the village. Lit- 
tle Annette is crying ; a goat bleata in the stable ; the Jew 
is walking in his room. He comes back; he places five 
francs upon the table ; I return him his money ; he fixes his 
eyes steadUy upon me. He Bpeaks to me; he asks me how 
far it is to Miiteig, " Four leagues." I wish him well upon 
his journey; he answers, " God bless you ! " He goes out; 
he is gone. (Mathiaa, with body bent, takes several steps 
fonrard, as if following and watching his victim. He ex- 
tends his hands.) The axl where is the ax? Aht here, be- 
hindthedoorl Howcolditis! (Tmnbles.) Thesnowfalls 
— not a star ! Courage, Mathias I You shall poBsess the girdle ! 
— Courage 1 1 follow him. I have eroseed the fields. (Points.) 
Here is the old bridge, and there, below, the frozen rivalet. 
How the dogs howl at Damal's farm I How they howl ! And 
old Finck's forge, how brightly it glows upon the hillock [ 
{ Low, as if speaking to himeelf . ) Kill a man ? Kill a man ? 
You will not do that Mathias — ^you will not do that! 
Heaven forbids it! (Proceeding to walk, with measured 
steps and bent body.) Yon are a fool I Listen I You will 
be rich ; your wife and child will no longer want for any- 
thing. The Jew came. So much the worse ; so much the 
worse; be ought not to have come! Yon will pay all you 
owe; yon will be no more in debt. (Loud, in a broken tone.) 
It must be, Mathias, that you kill him ! (Listens.) No one 
IB on the road — no one. (With an expreasion of terror.) 
What a dreadful silence! (Wipes hia forehead with hia 
hand.) One o'clock strikes, and the moon shines. Ah! the 
Jew has already passed! Thank God! Thank God! 
(Kneels. Pauses. Listens. Bella heard, off.) No! The 
bells, the bells! He comes! Be careful, Mathias! Don't 
dabble your sleeves in his blood! Boll them up tight! Be- 
member — the girdle ! — the girdle I (Bends down, in watch- 
ing attitude, and remains still. Pause. In a low voice.) 
You will tte rich — you will be rich — ^you will be rich ! (Bells 
increase in sound. Mathias as if watching. Suddenly he 
springs forward, and, with a species of savage roar, strikes 
atembleblowwiflihiflrigbthfaid.) Aha! Ihaveyoanow, 


16$ Cbe %peabet 

Jewl (He strikes again — learn forward, and gazes anz- 
ionslj oa the ground — extends his hand, as to touch soma- 
thing, bnt draws it back in horror. ) He does not move. I 
have done itt (Baiees himself, utters a deep sigh of relief, 
and looks around.) The horse has fled with the sledge. 
(Kneeling.) Heisdeadjall isorer. (Looks around.) An- 
other noise! Nothing again; only the wind, whistling 
through the trees. Quick, quick, let me get the girdle at 
once 1 — the girdle at once I Ha ! I have it I ( MThile speaking 
takes the girdle from the Jew's waist, and fastens it around 
hia own.) I am panting for breath ! I can scarcely buckle 
it sroimd my waist. Nothing but gold in it! — nothing bnt 
gold I — nothing but gold ! Quick, Mathiae, be quick I Garry 
him away! carry him away! (Bends down, and appears to 
lift the body on his back ; walks across the stage, with his 
back bent and with slow steps, as if carrying a heavy bur- 
den.) I shall take him to the lime-kiln. (Walking L.) I 
am there. (Appears to t^row down the body.) How heavy 
he was ! Oh, what hands are here I — dabbled with hia blood ! 
I'll have no more of that (Looks around.) Where's the 
shovel? (Bends to take it up.) I'll push him in with that 
(Hoarsely.) Go into the fire, Jew 1 — go into the fire ! (Ap- 
pears to push the body with all his force. Shades his face 
with his hand.) Be careful, or the Are will scort^ yon! 
Look t look I look ! He is burning, he is burning, burning, 
burning, burning I The corpse turns on the fire ! — the fa^ 
is tamed upward 1 (Suddenly utters a cry of horror, and 
staggers away, R., his face covered with his hands.) Ah I 
those eyes 1 — Uioee eyes I How they glare at me 1 — glare at 
me I (Quick exit, B.) 


There is a flower I wish to wear, 

Bnt not until first worn by you — - 
Hearts-ease — of all earth's flowera 
most rare; 
Bring it, and bring enoogh for two. 

Walter Savaob Landob. 


Cbe 9ptaftet 
Jathrop Lathrop's Cow* 


— —1 D8AN Cleoo and Mrs. Latbrop were next-door 
neighbors and boaom friends. Susan lived 
alone. Mrs. Lathrop's family consisted of her- 
self and her one son, Jathrop. Jathrop Lathrop 
was just the style and build of a young man 

to be easily persuaded into taking a kicking 

GOV in full payment of a good debt. Having taken the 
cow and brought her home, it naturally devolved upon his 
mother to do the milking. At the first trial the kicking 
cow kicked Jathrop Lathrop's mother so effectually that 
she went to bed forthwith, and the hastily-eununoned doc- 
tor pnt her broken leg into a plaster cast at once. When 
they were alone Susan said : 

*' Wei!, I never would a believed it o' Jathrop ! " 

" 'Twan't Jathrop ; it was the cow." 

" I know it was the cow kicked you, an' I must say if it 
wasn't for you an' me bein' such friends, I shouldn't mind 
seein' Jathrop get some sense kicked into him. Whenever I 
see him I can't help thinking that if you was cut out for a 
mother, it was a awtol pitv that yon got through at Jathrop. 
Who but a bom fool would buy a kickin' cow and then set 
his own mother down dose to her hind heels? Have you 
made a will ? " 

"A will?" 

"Tea; a wilL When I was down town Lawyer West 
stopped me *n said it was a important thing; he stud he 
knew a man once that stepped on a mety nail an' died an' 
left his property all wrong. While we was talking Mrs. 
Macy came np an' she is tumble exercised over naving 
your leg set by young Dr. Brown. She says that what he'd 
orter a done was to have von hang to the headboard while 
he gave your leg a good, hard jerk. He never orter a put 
yon into plaster. She says plaster is eatin', that's what it 
is. Plaster 'II eat anythin' right up. She says, don't yon 
know how if a dead rat gets in the wall, yon tlurow plaster 
on i^ an* the plaster eats the rat, hide, hair an' all ? I was 

• Oopnt^l*' It UtUSi Bnwn A Co., BoctoD. Ttom "Sonn Cltgg ud H«r 


168 ctie ^ealtet 

talkin' to Gnndma Mnllins about it, too, and she sajs Bbe^s 
eat ap a lot of rate that veiy vaj. Qnmdnia Bays if she 
was ;oa she'd ne?er rest ontil old Dr. Carter looked into 
that leg. She eajB, an' she says true, that a leg is a 1^ 
an' it Bays in the Bible, ' If you lose your salt, whaf II yoo 
salt with F ' A one-legged woman is so sort of outside of 
eveijtiiing. She can't say she was a biakeman, or lost it in 
the war. Of course we all wish young Dr. Brown weJl, an' 
I mean to call him in myself when I know jus' irtiat my 
trouble is, 'n jus' what I ought to take for it; but I tell you, 
Mrs. Lathrop, no young doctor gets a chance to walk off 
with one of my legs. 

"Are you trying to turn over? 'Cause if yon are you 
can't You ain't been kicked sii hoars yet, an' you've got to 
lay that way for six weekB." 

" Six weeks I Must I lay — " 

" That's what Grandma Mnllins says. She had a cousin 
with a broken leg once. The doctor didn't ever dream of 
plaeterin' him. He put splints on him. Qnmdma says 
they thought they couldn't stand it the £ist week, he was 
so terrible cross. 'N then the bones b^an to knit. 'N she 
says she hopes she may fall over Uien an' there if she ever 
knew anything to equal that leg-knitting, 

" I can't get that plaster out o' my head. I wonder if it 
won't give you the rheumatiz, anyhow. Deacon White got 
rheumatiz from movin' into a house when the plaster was 
damp, 'd it stands to reason itfd be worse yet if if s tied 
right tight to you. My [ whaf s that t Lord preserve us ! " 

Something swished madly by outside. Susan jumped for 
the window, looked out and jumped for the stairs. Mis. 
Ijathrop screamed, but the banging of the front door was 
all the answer she received. She waited and waited in 
agony of body and mind, and finally fell asleep. 

At 7 the next morning Susan rustled in. 

"Oh, Susan, I've had an awful night I Did yon see 

" You'll never see Jathrop again. Jathrop's gone." 

" Gone? " 

" Yes, gone. If he hadn't he might hare been lynched." 


"Lynched I Thafs what I said. 'N, bein' 'a I was 
brought np to speak the truth and fear no man, you c^n de- 
pend upon if s bein* so. It was the cow. Don't yon ranem- 
ber how I run last night? It seems she broke loose wbere 


Clie ^peabet i69 

she was tied, squeezed out into the chicken coop, 'n then 
bneted right through the vire nettin' 'n Bet off. She mn 
like wild fire, they say. She come into the square lickety- 
split, 'n the town committee was in the middle of It^ ex- 
amining the band stand where it needs fixln'. She came od 
the committee so sadden that th^ didn't even know what 
it was. They say greased lightning was donkeys to the way 
she wrat When ahe had finished the committee she went 
on down the crick road, and the minister and eix of the 
children was jus' coming home from a walk. The mioister 
was pushing the twins in a buggy, and he was palling little 
Jane behind him in an express wagon. The five children 
at home was all come ranning to meet 'em, an' the cow 
charged' right into the middle of the bunch 'n the minister 
'd all them eleven children is laid out for one spell. Well, 
'n eVen then she didn't stop. Seemed like ploughing 
through the minister's family only gave her fresh strength. 
She kep' right straight on down the crick road, 'n jus* by 
the ditch she came on Mr. and Mrs. Jilkins. Jilkina went on 
one side with a parasol punched into him, and Mrs. Jilkins 
went over into the ditch. 

** 'N the cow didn't stop then. She rushed right along, 
and on the first bridge was Mrs. Macy. She was standing 
wondering what was to pay up the road, an' then she seen 
it was a cow. Well, you Imow what Mrs. Macy is on cows, 
I heard her say one day that she'd rather have a mouse run 
up her skirts any day than a cow. Her story is that she 
only had time to see its horns 'n th wildnees of its eyes 
afore she never will know what did possess her. Well, Mrs. 
Lathrop, you c'n believe me or not, hut this is what she says 
happened. The bridge is here, yon know, 'n the road is 
here. The cow was running like mad aJong here, and 
Mrs, Macy, white and trembling, so that the oridge shook 
under her, was here, right atop of the bridge. She says to 
her dying day she'll never see how she done it, but she just 
grabbed her skif te, spread 'em out wide 'n said ' shoo ! ' as 
loud as she could. Her story is 't the cow stopped, like she 
was struck dumb that second ; then she reared up as pretty 
a rear as Mrs. Macy 'Jl ever ask to see, 'n then she fell side- 
ways into the mill race. The water was on full, an' she 
went right on down into the mill wheel, 'n some of her 
caught in it, 'n she couldn't budge. It squinched her right 
up, and she moved and kicked sum, an' bust the wheel, 
an' died. 


170 Cbe dpeaitet 

" Mrs. Mac; 88js she didn't waste no time on the cov. 
She joat run as fast oe she could to ^ere the nearest man 
was coming from. Fiiet she found Mr, Jilkins, sitting on a 
stomp pic^n' parasol out o' himself, an' swearin' in a ways 
that Mrs. Macy hopes to be spared hereafter. While she 
was jus" bridge side of him, Mrs. Jilkins come scram- 
blin' up out of the ditch, madder *n eixt^-five hornets. 
Seems she'd got most to the top twice, 'n it was so slippery 
't she'd slip clear back to the bottom again. Mrs. Macy 
says, * The Lord forgive her all her sine forever and ever a 
she ever see such a sight afore I ' Mrs. Macy says she ain't 
been a widow so long but what she see 't a glance 't they'd 
be better and happier without no third party by, 'n so she 
left 'em 'n went on to the minister's. The nei^bors was 
all there helpin' them. It seems the minister'B wife took 
on awful becaofle she thought he was killed, an' then when 
she found 't he wasn't the shock done her up completely. 
They got her to bed first, an' then young Dr. Brown rolled 
up his sleeves and went for the rest of 'em. He got the 
bandages as was ordered for your leg, an* used it ri^t up 
on the minister's family. He sent for all Shore's flaxseed, 
'n all Kimball's cotton, 'n then if he didn't pitch in 1 It 
seemed as if the cow had left him her spirit Hie minis- 
ter's nose is broken. Henry Ward Beecher's ,ear was most 
took ofE. Bobby and J(dm Bunyan has something that 
keeps 'em yellin' all the time, an' Felicia Hemans may 
have to be trepanned. It's just awful you can't get out 
You're missin' things as you U never have a chance to see 
again — ^not if yon live as high as Methusylum. The whole 
community is in the squaje, or else on the crick road. 
They've got the minister laid out on the sofa, 'n Polly Allen 
is right ttiere every moment to open the door and keep the 
line a-movin'. Every one wants to see the minieter, an' 
every one wants to see the cow. So some goes for the min- 
ister first, and the cow later. They all stops one way or the 
other to look down at Mrs. Jilkins's clawiu's on the side of 
the ditch, 'n. they say 'at the way she dug in the time she 
finally made it is almost beyond belief. Mr. Weet wants to 
know what steps you're int^iding in regard to the law- 
suits for damages." 

" Yes, damages ; your cow's damages." 
" My cow I I didn't have nothin' to do viUi ha except 
get kid»d, you, — " 


Cbe %ptakn in 

" I knov, but Ut. Wept explained all tliat to me. Jath- 
rop's gone, nobody knows where, 'n eo joa come nexL 'F 
he's proved dead, leavin' pToperty, it 'U be yoars, 'n if he 
leaves damage snitB yon iniierit them." 

Ure. Jathrop aat up in bed. 

" Oh, Susan, quick I I believe I broke my plaster casti " 

" Yes, you have I Well, I don't think much o' yonog Dr. 
Brown's plaster castuig. On^ held one day. I can move 
it all around enre. - 1 can pnll it up and down. Try stand- 
ing up." 

" I'm a little mite stiff; except for that I c'n walk as good 
'b I ever could." 

" It was never broke at all. No broken bone could grow 
together over night. Put on your things 'n go down with 
the rest of us to see the cow, 'n 'f yoong Dr. Brown makes 
any fuse over yonr not etayin' where he put you, I'd just 
np an' tell him to his face 't one fool's sufficient for one 
town. I guesB it'll take the wind out of his sails to see one 
of his own hrokoi 1^ nmning all over town the next day 
after it vras set. Come on nov, 'n hurry up, an' we'll go 
down 'n take a look 't the minister 'n then spend the rest 
of the morning over the cow.' 

" WiHi Whom There Is No Variableness, 
Netlher Shadow of Turning " 

It fortifies my soul to know 
That, though I perish. Truth is so: 
That, howsoe'er I stray and range, 
Whate'er I do Thou dost not change. 
I steadier step when I recall 
That, if I slip. Thou dost not fall. 

Abthdb Huqh Clooqh. 


172 Clw Quaker 

Two Scenes from "The 


The scene introduces Modus, a eheepish, bsskhil youth, 
and his consin Helen, with whom he is in love. Helen is 
alone in a room of the Eaii of Rochdale's palace. She 

Act rv. — SoKNB 1. 
Enter Helen, o. d. 

Hel. I'm weary wandering from room to room ; 
A castle af t«r all is bat a house — 
The dullest one when lacking company I 
Were I at home I could be company 
Unto myself. I see not Master Walter. 
He's ever with his ward. I see not her. 
By Master Walter will she bide, alone. 
My father stops in town. I can't see him. 
My cooBin majces his books his company. 
rU go to bed and sleep. No — I'll stay up 
And plague my cousin into maldng love I 
For, that he loves me, shrewdly, I Buspect. 
How dull he is that hath not sense to see 
What lies before him, and he'd like to find t 
I'll change my treatment of him — cross him, where 
Before I used to humor him. He comes, 
Poring upon a book. 

Enter Modus, u 
Whafe that you read? 

Modug. IaUb, Bweet cousin. 

Hel. Tis a nao^^ tongue. 
I fear, and teaches men to lie. 

Modus. To tiel 

Hel. Yon stady it You call your cousin sweet, 
And treat her as you would a crab. A^ sour 
Twould seem you think her, so you covet her! 
Why, how the monster stares, and looks about ! 
Yoa construe Latin, and can't construe that? 


C|}e 9peabec its 

Modus. I nerer etadied women. 

Eel. No ; nor men. 
Else would yon better know their ways : nor read 
In presence of a lady. [Strikes the hook from hia hand. 

Modus. Bight yon say. 
And well yon serred me, cousin, bo to strike 
The volume from my hand. I own my fault. 
So please yon, — may I pick it up again? 
I'll put it in my pocket ! 

Eel. Pick it up. 
He fears me as I were his grandmother t 
What is the book? 

Modus. "Tia Orid's Art of Love. 

Eel. That Ovid was a fool I 

Modus. In what? 

Eel. In that: 
To call that thing an art, which art is none. 

Modus. And is not love an art? 

Eel. Are you a fool, 
Ab well ae Ovid F Love an art t No art 
But taketh time and pains to learn. Love cornea 
With neither. Is't to hoard such grain as that, 
Ton went to College? Better stay at home. 
And study homely English. 

Modus. Nay, you know not ' 

The ai^ument. 

Eel. I don't? I know it better 
Than ever Ovid did I The face — the form, — 
The heart, — the mind we fancy, cousin ; that's 
The argument I Why, cousin, you know nothing. 
Suppose a lady were in love witti thee, 
Couldst thou, by Ovid, cousin, find it out ? — 
Conldst find it out, was't thou in love thyself? 
Could Ovid, cousin, teach thee to make love? 
I could, that never read him. You b^ia 
With melancholy ; thrai to sadness ; then 
To sickness ; then to dying — but not die! 
She would not let thee, were she of my mind ; 
She'd take compassion on thee. Then for hope; 
From hope to confidence ; from confidence 
To boldneaa ; — then you'd speak ; at first ^treat; 


174 c&e mvttHut 

Then orge; th^ flont; then argue; ihea enforce; 

Make prisoner of her hand ; besiege her waist ; 

Threaten her lips with etorming; keep tiiy word 

And cany her ! My sampler 'gainst thy Ovid t [f7fo«ej^ L. 

Why, cousin, are you frightened, that yon stand 

As yon were stricken dumb ? The case is clear 

Yoo are no soldier. You'll ne'er win a battle. 

You caie too much for blows I 

Modus. Yon wrong me there. 
At School I was the champion of my form. 
And since I went to College — 

Eel That for Coll^ ! [Crosses, R., and fillips with Htr 

Mod^is. Nay, hear me I \fingen. 

Eel. Well F What since you went to College? 
You know what men are set down for who boaet 
Of their own bravery. Qo on, brave cousin ! 
What, since yon went to College F Was there not 
One Qnentin Halworth there ? You know there was. 
And that be was your master I 

iiodux. He my master ! 
Thrice was he worsted by me. 

Eel. Still was he 
Your master. 

Modus. He allowed I had the bestt 
Allowed it, mark me f Nor to me alone, 
But twen^ I could name. 

Ed. And mastered yon 
At last ! Confess it, coosin, 'tis the truth. 
A proctor's daughter yon did both affect — 
Ixx>k at me and deny it! Of the twain 
She more affected yon ; — ^I've canght you now, 
Bold cousin ! Mark you I Opportunity — 
An opportunity she gave you, Sir,— 
Deny it if yon can I — bnt though to others, 
When you discoursed of her you were a flam^ 
To her yon were a wick that would not lieht^ 
Though held in very fire I And so he won aer^ 
Won her, becanse be wooed her like a mas. 
.... Now, Sir. 
Protest that you are valiant I 

Modus. Cousin Helen 1 


Cbe ^peaitec its 

Eel. Well, Sir? 

Modus. The tale is &11 a forgery I 

Eel. A forger; I 

Modus. From first to last: ne'er epoke I 
To a proctor's daagbter while I was at Collie. 

ffel. It WEB a Bcrivener'B, then — or Bomebody'a. 
But what concerns it whose? Enongh, yon loved her. 
And, shame apon yon, let another take her ! 

Modue. Cooain, I tell yon, if yon'U only hear me. 
I loved no woman while I was at Collie — 
Save one, and her I fancied ere I went there. 

Eel. Indeed ! Now 111 retreat, if he's advancing. 
Comes he not on ! Oh, what a stock's Hxe man ! 
Well, cousin? 

Modus. Well? What more woold'st have me say? 
I think I've said enough. 

Eel. And bo think I. 
/ did but jest with yon. Ton are not angry F 
Shake hands I Why, conBin, do yon squeeze me so? 

Modias. [Letting her ga.'\ I swear I squeezed yoa not! 

Eel. Yon did not? 

Modus. No. 
rUdieif IdidI 

Eel. Why, then yon did not, coosin ; 
So lefs shake hands again — [Ee takes hu- hand at before. 

Oh, go and now 
Read Ovid ! Consin, will you tell me one thing ; 
Wore lovers mffs in Master Ovid's time? 
Behooved him teach them, then, to pnt them on : — 
And that you have to learn. Hold up yonr head \ 
Why, cousin, how you blush. Plague on the ruff I 
I cannot give't a set. You're blushing still 1 
Why do you blush, dear cousin ? So, 'twill beat me I 
I'll give it up. 

Modvs. Nay, prithee don't — try on 1 

Eel. And if I do, I fear you'll think me bold. 

Modus. For what? 

Sel. To trust my face so near to thine. 

Modvs. I know not what yon mean. 


176 c&e ftpeaket 

Hel. I'm glad joa don't I 
CoowD, I own ri^t well behaved yoo are, 
Most marrellonely well behaved I They've bred 
You well at Coll^^ With another man 
My lips would be in dangerl Hang the mff I 

Modus. Kay, give it np, norplague thyself, dear 

Bel. Dear fool ! [Throwt the ruff on ffu ground. 

I Bwear the tuS is good for Just 
Aa little as ita master I There ! — 'Tis apoiled — 
Ton'll have to get another. Hie for it, 
And wear it in the fashion of a wisp, 
Ere I ad joBt it for thee I farewell, coosin I 
You've need to study Ovid's Art of Love. [Exit, B. 

Modus. Went she in anger ? I will follow her, — 
No, I will not I Heigho 1 I love my cousin ; 
Oh, wonld that she loved me I Why did she taunt me 
With backwardness in lore? What conld she mean? 
Sees she I love her, and bo laoghs at m^ 
Because I lack the front to woo her? Nay, 
I'll woo her, then ! Her lips shall be in danger. 
When next ^e trusts them near mel Looked she at me 
To-day, as never did she look before I 
A bold heart, Master Uodus I 'Tig a saying, 
A faint one never won fair lady yet 
I'll woo my cousin, come what will on't ! Yea ! 

^Begins to read, pauses, and thrutt$ book into his bosom. 
HiUig Ovid's Art of Love I I'll woo my cousin 1 \^Exit, K. 

Scene 2. 

The friends of Helen and Jtfofftu, exasperated by his sta- 
pidity, form a conspiracy to bring him to his senses. It is 
announced that Helen is to marry at once a husband of her 
father's choosing. When she and Modus are alone she says : 

Hel. Why, cousin Modus ! What I Will you stand by 
And see me forced to marry P Coosin Modus, 
Have you not got a tongue P Have you not eyes P 
Do you not see I'm very — ^very ill, 
And not a chair in all the corridor ? 

Modus. I'll find one in the study. lOoing towards c. B. 

Hel. Hang the study t 

Modus. My room's at hand. I'll fetch one tibence; 


C&e %vtaktt IT? 

Hel. Yoa ahan'tl lOoing B. 

Ill faint ere ;od come back 1 

Modus. What ahall I do? 

Hel. Why don't you offer to sopport me? Well? 
Give me your arm— -be quick I [Modug offers his arm.} Is 

that the way 
To help a lady when she's like to faint? 
I'll drop unless you catch me ! IFalla agaiast him. — Se sup- 
ports her.] That mil do. 
I'm better now — [He offers to leave her.] — don't leave me I 

Is one well 
Because one's better? Hold my hand. Keep bo. 
I'll soon recover, so you move not Loves he — [Atide."] 
Which 111 be sworn he does, he'll own it now. 
Well, cousin Modus? 

iloduB. Well ! sweet cousin ? 

Bel. Well? 
You heard what Master Walter said? 

Modus. I did. 

Hel. And would yon have me marry? Can't yoa speak? 
Say yes or no. 

Modus. No, cousin. 

Uel. Bravely said ! 
And why, my gallant cousin? 

Modva. Why? 

Hel. Ah, why? 
Women, you know, are fond of reasons — ^why 
Would you not have me many? How yon look! 
Is it because you do not know the reason ? 
Ton mind me of a story of & cousin 
Who ODce her cousin such a question asked. 
He bad not been to college, though — for bo<^ 
Had passed his time in reading ladies' eyes. 
Which he could construe marvellously well, 
Though writ in language all symbolical. 
Thus stood they once t<^ther, on a day — 
As we stand now — discoursed as we discourse,— 
But with this difference, — fifty gentle words 
He spoke to her, for one she epoke to himl— 
What 8 dear cousin t well, as I did say. 
As now I questioned thee, she questioned him, 
And what was his reply? To think of it 
Sets ray heart beating — ^'twas so kind a one I 


176 Cbe ^eaber 

So like a cousin's answer — • dear cousin I 
A gentle, honest, g&llan^ loving cousin I 

Modttt. On my soul I can't tell. 

Hel. A man might find it oat, 
Though never read he Ovid's Art of Lore. 
What did he ea; ? He'd many her himself 1 
How stcpid are you, cousin I Let me go I 

Modvs. Ton are not well yet 

Hel. Yea. 

Modus. I'm sure you're not 

Hel. I'm sure I am. 

Modus. Nay, let me hold you, cousin I 
I like it 

Hel. Do you ? I would wager you 
You could not tell me why you like it Well I 
Yon see how true I know yon 1 How yoa stare I 
What see you in my face to wonder at? 

Modut. A pair of eyes t 

Hel: At last he'll find his tongae.— [^mde.] 
And saw yoa ne'er a pair of eyes b^oreP 

Modus. Not snch a pair. 

Hel. And why. 

Modus. They are so bright I 
Yon have a Qrecian nose. 

Hel. Indeed? 

Modus, Indeed! 

Hel. What kind of month have I? 

Modus. A handsome one. 
I never saw bo sweet a pair of lipsl 
I ne'er saw lips at all till now, dear consin I 

Hel. Coasin, I'm well, — ^yoa need not hold me now. 
Do you not hear ? I tell you I am well ! 
I need your arm do longer — ^tak't away! 
So tig^t it locks me, 'tis with pain I breathe I 
Let me go, cousin t Wherefore do you hold 
Your face so close to mine? What do yoa mean? 

Modus. You've questioned me, and now III qae8tioii47aa. 

Hel. What would you learn? 

Modus. The use of lips ? 

Hel. To speak. 

Modus. Naught else? 


C&e %9taktt 179 

Set. How bold m; modeet conein grows 1 
Why, other use know yon ? 

Modus. I do. 

Hel. Indeed! 
Yoa're wondrous wise I And pray, what is it? 

Modus. This I [^Attempta to hits her, 

Hel. Soft ! My hand thantg yon, conein — for my lipe, 
I keep them for a hnsband ! [Cross, B.] Nay, stand off I 
111 not be held in manacles again I 
Why do yon follow me? 

Modus. I love yon, conein t 

Hd. Oh, consin, say yon sol That's passing strange 1 
Falls ont most crossly — is a dire nushap — 
A thing to sigh for, weep for, langoish for, 
And die for I 

Modus. Die for? 

Eel. Yes, with lan^ter, consin I 
For, coneiji, I love yon I 

Modus. And yon'll be mine? 

HeL IwiU. 

Modus. Toor hand npon it 

Zr«I. Hand and heart. 
Hie to thy dressing room, and I'll to mine^ 
Attire thee for the altar— so will I. 
Whoe'er may claim me, thon'rt the man shall have me. 
Away I Despatch I But hark yon, ere yon go. 
Ne'er brag of reading OTid's Art of Lore I — [End. 

{Modus bedeons Helen over to him, snateihes a leiss. — She 
runs off, B. ; he takes the book from hie bosom, which he 
had put there in former scene, looks at it and throws it 
dovn. — Exit, l.] 


180 Ctr Spcaket 

Last Speech of William 

(Delivwred at ths Pan-American Expotition at Bvffalo, 
Septomber 6. 1901.) 

(an EZTUOT.) 

T^^^""^HB viadom and energy of all the nations are none 
I too great for the world's work. The saccess of 
I art, science, indastiy, and invention is an inter- 
n national asset and a common glory. After all, 
I how near one to the other is every part of the 
I world! Modem inventions have brought into 
close relation widely-separated peoples and made them better 
acquainted. Oeographic and political divisions will conUnne 
to exist, but distances have been effaced. Swift ships and fast 
trains are becoming cosmopolitan. They invade fields which 
a few years ago were impenetrable. Isolation is no longer 
possible or d^irable. Tne same important news is r^d, 
thou^ in different languages, the same day in all Christen' 
dom. Vast transactions are conducted and intemational ex- 
changes are made by the tick of the cable. Every event of 
Interest is immediately bulletined. The quick gathering and 
transmission of news, like rapid transit, are of recent origin, 
and are only made possible by the gemiu of the inventor and 
the courage of the investor. It took a special messenger (^ 
the government, with every facility known at the time for 
rapid travel, nineteen days to go from the city of Washington 
to New Orleans with a message to General Jackson that the 
war with England had ceased and a treaty of peace had been 
signed. How different now ! We reached Gleneral Miles in 
Porto Rico by cable, and he was able through the military 
telegraph to stop his army on the firing line with the message 
that the United States and Spain had signed a protocol sus- 
pending hostilities. We knew almost instantly of the first 
shots fired at Santiago, and the subsequent surrender of the 
Spanish forces was known at Washington wiUiin less than an 
hour of its consununation. The first ship of Cervera's fleet 
had hardly emerged from that historic hubor wh^i the fact . 


Cde %ptaktt 181 

was flashed to onr capital and tlie swift destruction that fol- 
lowed was annoimced immediate]; through the wonderful 
medium of telegraphy. 

God and man have linked the nations together. No nation 
can longer be indifferent to any other. And as we are 
brought more and more in touch with each other, the less oc- 
casion is there for misunderstandings, and the stronger the 
dispoeition, when we have differences, to adjust them in the 
Goort of aibitratioQ, which is the noblest forum for the set- 
tlement of international dispatee. 

We have a vast and intricate business built up through 
rears of toil and struggle, in which every part of the coun^ 
has its stake, which will not permit of either neglect or un- 
due selfishness. No narrow, sordid policy ill subserve it. 
The greatest skill and wisdom on the part of manufacturers 
and producers will be required to hold and increase it. Our 
industrial enterprises wMch have grown to such great pro- 
portions affect the homes and occupations of the people and 
the welfare of the country. Our capacity to produce nas de- 
veloped so eoormously and onr products have so multiplied 
that the problan of more markets requires our urgent and 
immediate attention. Only a broad and enlightened policy 
will keep what we have. No other policy will get more. In 
these times of marvelous business energy and gain we ought 
to be looking to the future, strengthening the weak places in 
our industrial and commercial systems, that we may be ready 
for any storm or strain. 

By sensible trade arrangements, which will not interrupt 
our home production, we shall extend the outleta for our in- 
creasing surplus. A system which provides a mutual ex- 
change of commodities is manifestly essential to the contin- 
ued and healthful growth of our export trade. We must not 
repose in fancied security that we can forever sell everything 
and buy little or nothing. If snch a thing were possible it 
would not be best for os or for those wim whom ve deal. 
We should take from our customers such of their products 
as we can use without harm to oar indoBtries and labor. 
Beciprocity is the natoral outgrowth of our wonderful indus- 
trial development under the domestic policy now firmly 

What we produce beyond our domestic consumption most 
have a vent abroad. The excess must be relieved through a 
foreign outlet, and we should sell everywhere we can and buy 


183 Ctie ^peafcet 

wbererer the bajing will enlarge oar sales and prodnctiong, 
and thereby make a greater demand for home labor. 

The period of excIaslTeneeB ia past The expamioii of our 
trade and commerce is the preeeing problem. Commerci^ 
wars are unprofitable. A policy of good will and friendlj 
trade relations will prevent reprisals. Reciprocity treaties 
are in harmony with the spirit of the times; measorea of re- 
taliation are not. 

If perchance some of our tarifFe are no longer needed for 
revenne or to encourage and protect onr industries at home^ 
why shoold they not be onployed to eztrad and promote our 
markets abroad? 

In the furtherance of these objects of national interest 
and concern you are performing an important part. The 
good work will go on. It cannot be stopped. These bttildinga 
will disappear ; this creation of art and beauty and indusby 
will perieh from sight, bat their influence will remain to 
" Make it live beyond its too short living 
With praises and thaokegiTing." 

Who can tell the new thoughts that hare been awakened, 
the ambitions fired, and the high achievements that will be 
wrought through this exposition? Qentlemen, let us ever 
TQuember that oar interest is in concord, not conflict; and 
that our real ^ninence rests in the victories of peace, not 
those of war. May all who are represented here be moved to 
higher and nobler effort for their own and the world's good, 
and oat of this city may there come not only greater com- 
merce and trade for us all, but, more essential than ihes^ 
relations of mutual respect, confidence, and friendship which 
will deepen and endure. 

Our earnest prayer is that God will graciously vouchsafe 
prosperity, happiness, and peace to all our neighbors, and 
like bleaaings to all the peoples and powers of earth. 


at epeakec iss 

For Dear Old Yale* 


[One of the moet attrsctive short-stoiy coateata we hare 
had in recent years was that arranged by the editors of Th« 
Black Cat magazine. The prize was sufficiently large to in- 
terest the best writers of tiie country. The prize-winner, 
printed below, by permission of the publishers, is endence of 
die high character of the contest] 

^^^^%N a little mission station, five miles from Harpnt, 
KrI T were gathered twenty-five people, well content to 
Jx I ^ have a stone wall around uiem ; for the fanatical 
■Jmb4 hordes aloDg the upper waters of the Euphrates 
were showing evidences of hoetilify. The women 
and some of the men in the little company 
thought there was no danger after they were once behind the 
stone wall, bat the oldest of the missionaries knew the gravity 
and danger of the situation. 

Beyond doubt the most learned member of this handful 
of Christiana was Professor Walter Lathrop Sheffield Pea- 
body, whom Yale tTniversity had sent out to oversee some 
archffiological excavations in the valley of the Euphrates. 
Professor Peabody understood archaology, sociology, Greek, 
in fact nearly everything except dealing with Xeibeck chief- 
tains, who care no more for a New Haven lion than Aey do 
for a Persian cat However, Professor Peabody, who had a 
humiliating memory of having failed in physical courage in 
an emergency, determined now to take the leadership to wipe 
out its memory and to demonstrate beyond question his abil- 
ity and power. So, on this day, when he espied some horse- 
men passing in the distance, he picked up his rifle very 
quietly, and, before, any one could stop him, he fired a shot at 
long range. He would show these people that the ChristiaaB 
were on the alert for danger and were armed, ready to take 
the aggressive. 

When the ladies had gone to bed iliat night, Father Asda- 
dur, as he was called, the finest old mieeionary in Asia Minor, 
called ttie men tt^^ether. 

•Oorpl^ti l>T t^ Bbat 8toi7 PnblUUDS Co., IMT. 


184 Cbe ftpeafcet 

Then he announced very qaietly that the Xeibeck sheikh 
bad sent word that his band would attack the mission sta- 
tion at sunrise unless a white Christian, one of their number, 
be delivered over to be shot. " One of their number was killed 
by one of our bullets. Tbej want blood for blood. One of 
us must die, or they will massacre every one in this settle- 

" This is an outrage ; it is infamous I " said Professor Fea- 
body, and was launching into a pretty speech, when the old 
missionary interrupted : " This is a country, sir, of outrages 
and infamy." 

" But we are American citizens ; the Sultan must protect 

" The Sultan is powerless, and four days' marching could 
scarcely bring troops here. The Xeibecks will be at our gates 
when me sun comes up ; they keep their appointmenta." 

" Qentlemen," said he, after a troubled pause, " I suppose 
I am responsible for this catastrophe. I probably fired the 
shot — " 

" Xot so sure about that," put in Morris. *' I popped away 
at our friends two or three times myself this iutemoon." 

Every man in the room, with one possible exception, felt 
that this statement was false, and knew also why Horris 
made it 

He was a prot^gfe of Peabody's, and notable at Tale in his 
own way. It was said that no man had ever passed bini on 
tiie football field, and no man had ever failed to pass him in 
the dasB room. N^o dog ever loved his master better than 
he loved Professor Peabody; there was something pathetic 
in his attitude of humility toward this resplendent man of 
teaming, in whom he saw everything that was good and great, 
while he — well, he was only EH Morris. 

Morns told a He to defend his friend. Every one knew 
that. Every one save the professor, — at least he made no 

"My friends, I've lived in this region a long time, and 
understand its ways. In my time I have seen massacres. My 
mother and two sisters were killed at Hedink; my uncle 
and four cousins were killed at Trebizond. I know whereof 
I speak. The Xeibeclra are the fiercest fighters in Syria, and 
th^ outnumber ns ten to one. We mi^t hold out against 
them an hour or two, not longer. After that yon know what 
will happen." He glanced toward the stairway, whence the 


C|)e %ptaHt 186 

8oimd of laughter and women'B talk floated down. Each 
man looked his neighbor in the eyes ; they nnderatood. 

" See here," said Morris, abruptly, puttiog down his pipe; 
" tbere'e no use trying to dodge tiiis thing; there are twenty- 
five people here to be saved, and one of us six has got to 

(After a pause.) < 

" Gentlemen," said Morris, blowing out donds of emoke ; 
" I've been thinking of something. I believe I know why I 
was sent to this God-forsaken country. I never did know 
until now. I think I'm the man to meet these beggars in the 
morning. I don't see any sense in dravring lots. Look at it 
sensibly now; you five men are all doing something worth 
while, helping somebody, making the world better. I've never 
done a thing except give the governor trouble, and blow 
in his money, and get dropped and suspended, and get my- 
self laughed at, and — and " (with a gulp) " kick footbaJl 
a little. Besides that, you're married men, with families; 
but it don't matter a hang about me. So you'll please con- 
sider me nominated for this businesB in the morning." 

It is doubtful if, in all his life, Eli had ever made so long 
a speech as this ; it is certain he had never made such an im- 
pression. Father Asdadnr reached acrtras the table and 
clasped the young man's strong white hand in his brown, 
bony one. 

" God blesB you, my son," he said, " you have a brave heart, 
but the thing is impossible; quite impossible; There is but 
one way, — to draw lota," 

To this all agreed, and a rag merchant from Chicago pro- 
posed that cards should point the finger of fate. 

" I never played cards in my life," said Father Asdador. 

" Neither did I." 

" I'll show yoir in a ji^. Look here. I deal you each five 
cards, like that " ; — ^he produced a pack of cards from some- 
where and began to shuffle them, — " understand, you have the 
privil^e of drawing once, and the lowest hand loses." 

" Why not have it this way," suggested the professor, never 
lacking in a happy suggestion ; " why not have the high man 
drop out after each deal and leave the others to fi^t it out? 
Then the choice will come between the two left in at the 

This modification was agreed to, and Father Asdadur dealt 
the first hand, dealt it in silence, and his very clumsiness 
added to the tension. The six men studied their cards, threw 


1S6 die ftpeofcet 

down tbeir diecards, ctdled for the utimber &.ej wanted, and 
dien declared vtiat the; had. The man from Chicago bad 
tiiiee kings and went out; he was safe. In the next ronnd. 
Father Asdadur found fortune and went out in hig torn. 
Then one after another the young miseionariee held the high- 
eat hand, and so eecaped the danger. The last hand came be- 
tween Morris and ProfesBor Feabody. Morris dealt 

" One card," said the professor, and his lipe vra« di;. 

" I'll take one," said Morris. 

Both men discarded a single card, picked up a single card, 
and then slowly looked at it 

" Aces up," said the profeeaor, 

" I drew for a flush, said Morris, with a hosktseea in his 
Toice, " and — I didn't fill." 

He threw down his cards, and for a moment no one spoke. 

" If a all ri|^t," said Eli; " fate understands these things. 
I told you I was the man to go." 

That broke the spell, and the others crowded abont him 
with a show of sympathy. No one could sleep, and no one 
faried to sleep. Morris wrote letters to his family and one to 
a girl. About half an hour before Bunrise sounds from the 
upper regions warned them that the ladies were dressing. 
Morris went quickly to the others and charged them on no 
account to let the ladies know. 

In a moment the ladies appeared in their cool morning 
gowns. Coffee was served with a light meal, and just as the 
sun was rising Morris stood up and asked the company to 
sing " Here's to Good Old Yale." The men stood up, and the 
women rose, too, yielding to an influence they did not under- 
stand, and they all san^ the old song as perliaps it had never 
been snng before, certamly not in Kurdistan. While in the 
center of the group, witii lifted coffee-pot, stood Morris, 
towering half a head over every one, and singing his home- 
made bass with all the power that was in him, his eyes flash- 
ing wondrously. 

" There are Eli's fine old discords again," said one of the 
girls, giggling, and was surprised that the men did not 

Suddenly there came the sound of marching feet outside. 
A hoarse command rang out and gun butts grounded on ute 
gravel. The ladies mshed to the window. 

" Make them understand," said Professor Peabodj, " that 
I represent one of the greatest institutions in the Fnited 
States, and can promise Uiem anything they desire." 


Cbe %vtaktt 187 

" The aheikh says that he has nerer heard of the United 
States," said Fathei Asdadnr, tranalatmg ; " he eaye he has 
given his terms and has come for an answer." 

" But tell him, for God'e sake, make him underetand, that 
this young man comes of fine family, that his father is veiy 
rich, that — that — that he has been entrusted to my keeping. 

" The sheikh says that the young man of their band who 
was killed from here had a faUier and mother, too." 

" Don't botiier about it any more; it isn't much, anyhow. 
Qood-by, professor. You know if e all — all — for ' Deftt Old 
Yale,' " and he gripped the professor'a well-ahaped hand in 
an athlete's squeeze. 

" Where are you going, Mr. Morris ? " asked one of the 
girls from one of the windows. 

" Oh, just to see these fellows do some musket practice," 
said Eli, lightly. 

" Look ! exclaimed another, " they're taking him by the 
arms 1 Why, they're leading him off like a prisoner ! " 

" Don't be alarmed," called EH ; " if s just a joke. Say, 
ladies, friends, professor, let's give it to 'em once again, the 
old song." And he himself struck up ; — 

" Here's to good old Yale, drink her down ; 
Here's to good old Yale, drink her down ; 
Here's to good old Yale, 
She's so hearty and so hale. 
Drink her down, drink her down, drink her 
down, down, down." 

And be kept singing while two barbarians, who knew 
no more of Yale than they did of mercy, formed on either 
side of him and started at the word of command. 

As the sun came over the hills, lighting up the glories of 
the Ihiphrates valley, this little company of Christians, far 
from their homes, stood on the piazza and watched the depart- 
ing group, while their voices sounded out in dear old 
woriu. And while they sang, the Xeibeck band marched 
slowly up the slope, until the last thing seen of £Ii was his 
figure outlined on the hilltop in the red sanshine, while his 
voice came down faintly to his friends in the chorus that has 
btien sung by the brave men of many brave classes, and will 
be song as long as Yale endures : 

" Here's to good old Tale, drink her down I " 

" Why, how queer you men look I " said the wife of the 
jonng missionaiy. " Whafs the matter?" 


188 CDe ^eabet 

The eonnd of shots came orer the hill and echoed smj in 
the distaDce, juet as a girl's voice was heard. 

" O, girls," came a voice from within, " see here; I do be- 
lieve Uieee men have been playing poker 1 Think of that at 
a miseion station 1 Jnst look at this fine hand : ace, king, 
qneen, jack, ten-spot t " 

The professor was silent for a full half minate, and hie 
face became very white. Then he said, with a look in his 
^es no one had ever seen there : " Mj Qod ! gentlemen, this 
is Morris's hand." 

And at that moment Professor Walter Lathrop Sheffield 
Feabodj understood that Tale University had turned out a 
bigger man than he. 

The Lance of Kanana 

Kanaka was a Bedouin bo;, the eon of an Arab 

T% I ^'®^- 

J^ I As he grew to manhood he manifested a 
\ strong dislike to war, and was, therefore, a great 
I disappointment and trial to his father. He 
P had openly avowed that he would not lift a 
lance, in which he was expert, except in deface of his re- 
ligion and his country. As onr story opens. Prince Manual, 
son of the mighty Emperor Heraclius, has started with a 
vast army of Greeks and Turks and Bomans to annihilate 
the Arabs. 

Eahled the Invincible ia commander of the Arabian forces. 
Kanana is touched to the heart by the awful condition of his 
country. We see him at the t«it door of Kahled, begging 
that he may do something to help save Arabia. He ia allowed 
to go as a spy into the camp of Prince Manual, and furnishes 
K^ed wiui much valuable information. At a critical mo- 
ment he is captured and must suffer the fate of a spy. Onr 
story tells ns that, though held by the enemy, he succeeds in 
saving his country. 

The Arabian army had not retreated one foot from its 
original position, when night brought the third day's battle 
to a close. Kahled sank upon the ground among his soldiers. 
Plight or death would surely be the result of the coming day. 
Even Eahled the Invincible had given up all hope of victoiy. 


Ctie speaker i89 

Id the camp of Prince &f anual the same dread of the com- 
ing day clouded every brow. Food was entirely ezhaasted. 
Their solid phalanx was only what the enemy saw. 

" If we could only make the Araba think their men were 
deserting and joining us, we might fri^teu them," sug- 
gested an ofiicer. 

" Send for the spy," said Manual quickly, " and let it be 
proclaimed among the prisoners that all who will join nB shall 
be set free, and those who refuse shall be slaughtered without 

Haggard and worn, Kanana Bt«od before him. " I am 
about to torture thee," said the Prince. " Thou has wronged 
me more than thy sufferings can atone, but I shall make tbem 
as bitter as I can. Haet thou anything to say before the 
work begins ? " 

Eanana thought for a mtmient, then replied : " Among the 
captives taken by the Prince, I saw ao old man pass my cave. 
He is full of years. May it please the Prince to double every 
torture he has prepared for me, and in exchange to set that 
old man free?" 

" Who is he ? " asked the Prince. 

" He is my father." 

" 'TIS well. Let him be brought" 

The old man entered. 

"Is this thy father?" 

Kanana simply bowed his head in reply. 

" You have offered to suffer every torture I can devise if 
I will set him free. You gave to Kahled the information 
which prevented his making terms witii me. But for you, 
I should now be on my way to Mecca and Medina, to sweep 
them from the face of the earth; but I like cour^. It 
is a pity to throw a heart like yours nnder a clod of earth, 
and I will give you an opportunity to save both yourself and 
your father. Stand upon yonder cliff as the sun rises ; there, 
according lo the custom of your people wave this lance above 
your head. Shout your own name and yonr father's so that 
all of your people can hear, and tell them that in one hour 
thirty thousand Arabs will draw sword in the cause of Herao- 
liu8. Then throw your lance, and if your aim be good and 
you kill an Arab, that moment will I set your father free, 
and yon will be made a prince among my people. Refuse 
me, and, after I have tortured you, wiUi red-hot irons will I 
bum out your father's eyes." 

He bad scarcely ceased speaking when the old sheikh ez- 


190 die Speaker 

claimed: "M; Boni Mj Kananal I hsTe wronged thee I 
Forgive me if tiioa canst, bat let him bum oat mv eyes I Oh, 
Dot for all the ^es that watched the stars would I have a scoi 
of mine a traitor. Thou wouldst not lift a lance before : I 
charge ihee, nov, by Allah, lift it not for any price that may 
be offered thee by this dog of an infidel ! " 

Eanana fixed hie eyes on Manual and asked : " Will the 
Prince allow his captive to sit alone till euurise and consider 
his offer ? " 

" Take him out upon the cliff, and let him sit alone," said 

Kanana chose a spot from which he could overiook the 
entire valley. One glance and he recognized the result of 
Eahled's last resolve. In the gray distance he saw laden 
camels moving to the south. He saw dark spots, most dis- 
tant in the v^ey, suddenly disappear. They were folding 
their tents. They were moving away ! Eahled the Invincible 
bad ordered a retreat I 

Kanana knew that a retreat at that mtHuent meant death 
to Arabia, but he did not move again till an officer touched 
him on the shoulder and warned lum that in a moment more 
the sun would rise. 

With a startled shudder, he arose. " Qive me that lance 1 " 
he said. He took the lance, tested it, and threw it scornfully 
upon the ground. 

" Give me a heavier one. Do you think me like your 
Qreek boys, made of wax? Give me a lance that when it 
strikes will HU." 

They mve him a heavier lance. 

" The hand-rest is too small for a Bedouin," he muttered, 
grasping it ; " but wait ! I can remedy that myself." 

As he spoke he tore off a strip from beneath his coat, and, 
turning sharply about, walked before them to the edge of 
the cliff, winding the strip firmly about the hand-rest of the 
lance. Upon the very brink he stood erect and waited. 

The sun rose out of the plain and flashed with blinding 
force upon the Bedouin boy. 

" Are you afraid ? " muttered the Prince. 

Eanana did not torn bis head as he answered : " Do yon 
see yonder man npon a gray horse, moving slowly among his 
solders ? He is coming nearer, nearer. 'llist man is Eahled 
the Invincible." 

" Kill him," said the prince, " and thou shalt be loaded 
down with gold till the day when thou diest of old age." 

Kanana made no reply, but watched calmly and waited till 


Ciie ^eobo; m 

at last Eafaled left the line of soldiers and rode alone nearer 
the cliff. 

" Now is your chance, now, now ! " exclaimed the Prince; 

Slowly Kanana raised hia lance ; three times he waved it 
above hjs head ; three times be ahoated : " I am Eanana, son 
of the Terror of the Desert ! " in the manner of a Bedoniu 
who challenges an enemy to fight; or meets a foe upon tiie 

For a moment, then, be hesitated ; the next sentence was 
hard to speak. He knew too well what the result wonld be. 
All that vast army down below was looking npon h'Tn , Thon- 
sandfl wonld bear his words; tens of thousands would see 
what followed them. 

" Go on t Go on 1 " the Prince ejaculated, fiercely. 

Eanana drew a deep breath and shouted : " In one hour 
thir^ thousands Arabs will draw the sword in the army of 
Heraclios ! " 

Then, gathering all bis strength, be harled the lance 
directly at the great Mohammedan general, who had not 
moved since be began to speak. 

Throughout those two great armies one might have heard 
a sparrow chirp, as the gleaming, flashing blade fell like a 
meteor from the cliff. It pierced the gray charger; the war 
horse of Eahled plunged forward and fell dying upon the 
plain. A fierce howl rose from the ranks of the Arabians. 

" Eanana, the traitor t A curse upon the traitor t " rent 
the air. Such was the confusion which followed that had the 
Greeks been ready to advance, a thousand might have put an 
hundred thousand Bedouins to flight. But they were not 

Eanana stood motionless upon the cliff. He heard the 
yells of traitor, bnt he knew that thf7 wonld come, and he 
did not heed them. Calmly he watched till E^led gained 
his feet, dragged ihe lance from the dying horse, and with it 
in his band hurried towards his soldiers. Only once be 
turned, and for an instant looked up at Uie solitary figure on 
the cliff. Then he turned and disappeared. 

Eanana put his band beneath bis coat. Then, witb a deep, 
shivering sigh, be turned about and faced Manual. 

" Yon did well," said the prince, " but you did not kill an 
Arab. It was for that I made the promise." 

" ' And if you kill an Arab,' gasped Eanana, ' that moment 
will I set yonr father free I ' That was yonr promise, bound 
W all the powers of earth and heaveni Ton will keep itt 
Yon dare not defy those powers, for I have killed an Arab I '^ 


192 Cbe speaker 

As he epok^ Kanana tore open his coat and above a bril- 
liaDt girdle tiiey saw a dagger buried in his bleeding heart. 
He tottered, reeled backward and fell over the cliff. 

Manual turned to the old Bheikh and said : " A monstrona 
aacrifice haa just been made to purchase your liberty. Oo ! 
You are free ! " Then turned quickly and entered his tent. 

" I think they are flying," an officer reported, coming from 
the cliff. ** Let every soldier face them who has strength 
to stand I " commanded the Prince. 

The BedouinB, with their constantly-thinning ranlm, stood 
with grim determination where their feet rested, but they 
made no effort to advance. The wearied-oat and starving 
Grecian phalanx simply held its ground. 

An hour went by. Suddenly Siere was an uproar in the 
rear of the army of Heraclius. Ten thousand horse, and 
twenty thousand war camels poured in upon that defence- 
less rear, and even as Eanana had declared, in just one hour 
thirty thousand Arabs were wielding their savage swords in 
the army of Heraclius. 

Another hour went by. Then the battle cry of Eabled 
ceased. The shout of victory rang from the throats of the 
Husselmans. The magnificent army of Heraclius was liter- 
ally obliterated. Arabia was saved. 

Quickly the soldiers erected a goi^eous throne, and sum- 
moned Eahled to sit upon it, while they feasted about him, 
and did honor to him as their victorious and invincible leader. 

The veteran warrior came from his tent with his head 
bowed down, bearing in his arms a heavy burden. Slowly he 
mounted the platform, and on the sumptuous throne he laid 
his burden down. It was the lifeless body of Kanana. 

With trembling hands the grim chieftain drew back the 
sheepskin coat, and all men beheld, bound about the Bedouin 
boy the sacred girdle. 

" 1 gave it him," said Eahled, solemnly. " And upon the 
fragment you have returned to me he wrote the information 
by which we have conquered Jababal and Mannal." 

"You saw him throw this lance at me; yon called him 
traitor, but about the hand-rest was wound this strip. See, 
in blood, in his own blood, these words are written : ' Do not 
retreat. The infidels are starving and dying. Strike them 
in the rear!' It was his only means of reaching me. It was 
not the act of a traitor. No I It was the lance of Kanana 
that saved Arabia." 


^]be sweater 

^■yjy preparing this Dumber of The Spbaees the 
gat T editors believe they have met an urgent demand 
JXl M for aelectionB suitable for children to recite^ 
qJtaiaJ Teachers and parents complain that thej have 
no more difficult task than to find such material, 
so that in gathering into a single volume so many 
things from the best writers we present a hand book for 
every home and school. Many people will not agree with 
our choice in such eelections as "The Recessional," the 
"Concord Hymn," and some others, maintaining that these 
are beyond the comprehension of children, while other people^ 
no doubt, will say that some of the numbers are too simple. 
Our standard in choosing is fixed by what seems to us suffi- 
SelMitioD* cient reasons. It is not necessary that a child 

foiChildran should understand what he recites, though' 
there m'ust be that in the selection whicli 
makes a definite appeal to his emotions. If tliere is a rhythm 
that BUggeets bravery, patriotism, joy, devotion, or other 
emotion, the selection is suitable. For this reason poetry is^ 
to be chosen rather than prose, especially for younger chil- 
dren. The literature of childhood, whether it be the child- 
hood of a race or of an individual, is rhythmical — songs and 
ballads. Poetry has a stronger appeal than prose. The best 
pnwe is characterized by truth and wisdom, but poetry is 
more tlian these, it is the "rose upon truth's lips, the light 
in wisdom's eyes." "That is why," to quote from Kate 
p^ Douglas Wiggins's splendid introduction to 

p^ her anthology of child verse, "the thought in 

^ it finds its way to the very heart of one, and 

makes it glow and tremble, fills oue with desire to do some 
splendid action, right some wrong, be something other than 
one is, more noble, more true, more patient, more cour- 
ageous." Prose appeals to the understanding, poetry to the 
emotions. There are stories like those of Uncle Remus and 
liamb's "Tales of Shakespeare," that interest children, bat 
theee are osually too difBcult for them to recite. 


194 ciie ftpealiet 

Poetrj exalts the imaginatioa and Idndlee the a^pathies, 
and these are the qualities which mean most in an; ednca- 
tion — these develop aoal cnlture. 

"This ifl teaching Uteratare," it ma; be objected. Cer- 
tainly; but choosing selections for children most always be 
done with a definite pnrpoee of teaching literature. "Speak- 
ing pieces" is to be condemned because it is an injustice to 
the child and a bore to those who listen. It is uBually said 
that in learning to recite selections children acquire a con- 
fidence in themselves which helps them in other woi^ and 
in their relation to other children and with grown people. 
Possibly, but it more often contributes to the vanity of those 
who are inclined to be "smart Alecks," and punishes the shy 
AnEzerdM, and awkward ones, whom it is supposed to 
V»t aa Bx- help. Beciting what they have committed 
**^'**''' ahodld be an exercise, not an exhibition. 

When this distinction is clear in the minds of parents and 
teachers there are few more helpful drills in the child's life. 
Whether the selection is to be used as an exhibition or aa ad 
exercise has mach to do with determining the class of litera- 
ture chosen. 

Children like to commit things to memory, and they are 
constantly doing it. Then what a pity not to store their minds 
with that which is worth while ! Nursery rhymes are not to 
be tabooed, but we must recognize that if the child-mind is 
to grow, it must have something to take the place of Mother 
Ooose. At first that which supplants these delightful 
jingles will have just as much rhytiim and rhyme, but truth 
and wisdom will now begin to appeal in homoeopathic form. 
That which is given must be a joy to the child, otherwise he 
may never learn to care for poetry or for literature in any 
form. But, with such a wide range of choice, it is not diffi- 
cult to find that which will make a strong appeal. Even a 
very young child will enjoy a poem such as "The First 
_,^ - Nowell," and vrill take a keen delight in mak- 

, _^^ ing Nowell rhyme with Israel. We can't hope 

'™* to have children enjoy good literature by giv- 

ing them "Paradise Lost" to parse or to diagram; yet, by 
giving some of the most melodious passages to commit, they 
may learn to read it all with pleasure. Certainly some of the 
shorter poems, like "L' Allegro," with its delightful 
"Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee 
Jest and yonOiful jollity," etc., 
will the child a taste of Milton which he will not forget. 


7^ Teoflon so few people read poetry with pleasure is that 
the; do not bring to tiie reading a poet's sympath; and imag- 
ination. As has been said, "You will find poetry nowhere 
unless you bring some with you." In order that a child may 
learn to love poetry for somfithing more than the rhythm the 
teacher muet appeal to bis imagination, so that it wiU kindle 
in reeponse to the imagination of the verses. If the child is 
learning that beautiful "Summer Lullaby" by Eudora S. 
Bmnstead, for instance, and comes to the line, 

"The dandelions hare closed their eyee," 
or the lines following, 

"And the stars are lighting their lamps to see 
If the babies and birds and squirrels all three 
Are sound asleep as they ought to be," 
there are splendid opportunities for drawing out eren th« 
most feeble imagination. The figures of the dandelions and 
stars are within the experience of the child, and he readily 
responds to the new conception. 

It must not be understood, however, that we urge poetry to 
the exclusion of prose in choosing selections. For older chil- 
dren there are many prose selections that may be used euc- 
ceasfolly. We print some of these, and indicate others. 
* * * 

The editors hare been actuated by a desire to famish a 
valuable supplement to the reading matter used in the 
primary and.grammar grades. There are two steps in leam- 
- .. . ing to read. In the first the child is led from 

T atMn f couscious thought to its correct oral expression, 

* and then to its symbolic representation.. If 

the child Is first taught to speak well and then to recognize 
his own words and sentences by sight, he will be delighted to 
discover that reading is talking. If that happy state can be 
sustained, the natural, creative imagination of the child will 
be engaged, and the result will be a charming and spontan- 
eous expression of child life and of childish attitude toward 
things that shoold be illuminating and of inestimable value 
to the teacher. 

There are a number of poems and stories in this volume 
which may be told to the children who have not yet mastered 
the art of reading. There is no better antidote to tfie infla- 


1&6 c(>e ^eaftet 

ence of the foreign element and to the unconth and mlgu 
epeech of the street and playground than a noble poem read 
in a cultivated, ej-mpathetic Toice. The children learn to 
repeat it from the teacher's lipB, and to them it is illumin- 
ated b; her imagination and glorified by her personalit;. 
In r^>eating the poems and telling the stories the vise 
teacher will soon perceive the dramatic advantage of being 
free from the book. Children always want to throir it aside 
Then heart and soul are engaged. They should be stimu- 
lated and encouraged to visualize and memorize the picture 
and thought behind the words. This will require many repe- 
titions, and it will be found that the author's words now sug- 
gest themselves as the natural clothing of the thought When 
the stress is placed upon the memorizing of words alone, the 
child's reciting is likely to be "an effort to get something off 
his mind rather than to get something into the mind of tlie 
listener." The chief aim of primary reading is (o prepare 
the child to read ; to equip him with a key — "the sesame 
which opens doors not of robbers', but of kings', treasuries." 
From that time on reading becomes a process of thought- 
getting only, or of thought-getting and tliought^giving. 
With the first, with silent reading, it is not in our present 
province to deal. Our intention is to find good literature 
which shall serve in a school-room eiercise — an exercise in 
which the vocal interpretation shall be the test of the pupil's 
Vocal lnt«T- understanding of the text. There has been no 
pretation as thought or desire to cater to the demand for 
Teat of exhibition pieces; nor to offer encouragemait 

Keading ^ jii^t pitiful victim of parental folly or ignor- 

ance, the Infant Prodigy. Judged by an absolute standard, 
any possible performance of a child must be pitiful enough. 
The whole interest centers in the fact ihat it is the work of a 
child, and not that it has signal artistic merit; and yet 
parents are so blind and vain as to inflict on an audience an 
immature exercise wliich has no place outside of the school- 
room or nursery. If a child have gifts which promise that 
he shall one day be a great interpreter of literature, of life, 
he of all others should be allowed to know life at its best, to 
know the meaning of a sane, happy, normal childhood. Life 
has no more blessed gift than a simple natural childhood. 
The memory of it makes one rich forever, and yet many a 
vain and ambitious parent has mtlilessly pushed the fairest 
into a hothouse, where "the golden gates of childhood hove 
forever closed behind him.'' 


C&e 9pealtet i^r 

Ths editors hope, too, that the book will have no mental 
oesociation with the conventional rhetorical-day exercises, 
that "day of torment" which has for many "laid the 
foundation of a finiBbed incapacity for public speaking." 
The place that the book hopes to fill in the school-room and 
in the home is as a supplement to the r^nlar reading lesson. 
If the child still remembers that reading is talking, then 
this book will make to him the strongest appeal because the 
selections have all been made with tiie thought of the oral 
jg^iuaiM delivery. They are singularly incomplete 

-^ -^, without the voice. They belong to that class of 
^JT^~^ literature of which Newell Ihwight Hillis once 

' said : "The printed page is to its proper vocal 

inteipretation what Christopher Wren's plans are to St, 
Paul's Cathedral — a blue-print for the eoul.'' 

We recommend that the selections be memorized, for, 
besides the advantage of storing the mind with beautiful 
thongbta in beautiful English, they furnish many noble and 
stimulating ideals of conduct. Then, too, the memorizer 
argues that the lesson is well prepared, and the reader has 
the further advantage of being able to look into the faces of 
those whom he is addressing. 

An attempt has been made to choose stories that are sim- 
ple, direct, dramatic, that it may be easy for the child to fuse 
and hold the little audience. 

We have tried to keep constantly before us the distinction 
between sentimeot and sentimentality, a distinction that is 
not always regarded in preparing books for children. We 
believe that to a greater or less degree all the matter in this 
book deserves the high praise that Edward Everett Hale 
accords to the children's stories of Hans Christian Andersen, 
"There is a quiet use of language in which there is a nom- 
inative case for the thing that is described, and a good stead- 
fast verb which describes that thing; in which there is no 
rushing north, south, east or west for an effect which is visi- 
ble and at hand." 


198 cue ^pealtet 

Mod; of our siibecriberB will change their nUrlrmnm before 
the opening of the next school year, but not before the next 
number of The Spbaxeb la mailed. While ve 
wish to be accommodating, we cannot send a 
second copy of the September number to those 
who fail to inform ua in time to have that nomber mailed to 
the new address. We shall hold back the September number 
until a few days after the let so that all may have an oppor- 
tunity to inform us where their copy is to be mailed. We 
are mailing the June number several days before the 1st so 
that the teachers whose schools close early may have the mag- 
azine before they leave for the summer, and that many may 
have these selections for closing ezerdsee. 



We get no good 
By being ungenerous, even to a book. 
And calculating profits ... so mnch help 
By so much reading. It is rather when 
We gloriously foi^ ourselves and plunge 
Soul-forward, headlong, into a book's profound, 
Impassioned for its beauty and salt of truth — 
'Tis then we get the right good from a book. 

From "Aurora Leigh." 


The Shave-Store* 


[Ko book of child verse io recent years bae made so strong 
an appeal to critics and the reading public as "Chronicles of 
the Little Tot," from which this poem is reprinted by per- 
mission of the author and the publishers, the Dodge Publish- 
ing Company, New York. The book is filled vith poems 
that lend themselves to recitation. To enumerate these 
would be to repeat most of the fifty-two titles, but "The 
Hen," "At the Concert," "The Papa-Dolly" should be 

Yesterday papa said : "Will it behave, 

If I should t^e it, while I get a shave?" 

'N I said "Yea!" as loud as I could talk, 

So me en he, we went out for a walk. 

Clear to the Shave-Store. £n then I sat there 

En papa dumb up in the dentist chair 

En had a bib on. En the shave man took 

En painted papa till be nukde him look 

Like froetin on a angel-cake. Mmf he looked nicel 

IT I thought the man was goan to cut a slice I 

He took a knife en wiped en wiped it, but 

He didn't hurt my papa. He jus' cut 

The frostin' off hjs face, en took another 

£nife en wiped t( on the piece of luther. 

En painted papa more, 'n' cut, 'n' cut 

En mussed his hair, 'n' slapped bis face, 'n' shut 

The ol' knife up, 'n' washed his face, he did. 

Like papa washes me, sometimes, 'n' calls me "Kid." 

En he put baby-powder on him, too. 

En smelled him up. En when he was all through 

The shave-store man says : "'Bye, young lady ; when 

You want another shave jus' call again." 

• OopjTlctat, IMS, br Sodga PoblUitec Oo. 


The Moo-Cow-Moo' 


Mj pa held me up to the moo-cow-moo 
So cloet I could almost touch, 

£q I fed him a couple of times, or tro. 
En I wasn't a traid-cat — much. 

But ef mj papa goes into the hotis^ 

En mamma she goes in, too, 
I just keep still, like a little moose, 

Per the moo-cow-moo might moo I 

The moo-cow-moo's got a tail like a rope 
En if 8 raveled down where it grows. 

En if s just like feeling a piece of soap 
All over the moo-cow's nose. 

En the moo-cow-moo has lots of fun 

Just swinging his tail abont ; 
En he opens his month and then I mn — 

'Cause that's where the moo comes outt 

En the moo-cow-moo'a got deers on his head 
En his eyes stick out of their place. 

En the nose of the moo-cow-moo is spread 
All over the end of his face. 

En his feet is nothing but linger nails 
En his mamma don't keep 'em cut. 

En he gives folks milk in water-pails 
Ef he don't keep his handles shut. 

'Cause ef you er me pulls the handles, why 
The moo-cow-moo says it hurts. 

But the hired man he sits down dost by 
En squirts en squirts en squirts I 

•Ogmlglit,tMB,brDoi|ePabUiUncO». PabHHisd bj pemlnloB. 


Brother Wolf and the Homed 


[Like all the stories by Joel Chandler HairiB, those in 
"Nights with Uncle Bemus" are a delight to the children. 
Two boys who know the book intimately choBe the following 
as tlie best stories in this volume. Tbey liad some difficulty 
in making a choice. Only five were to be mentioned; they 
finally succeeded in cutting the list to Biz, the one printed 
herewith being the favorite: "Brother Wolf Says Grace," "A 
Ghoet Story," "Brother Babbit and His Famous Fast," 
"The Origin of the Ocean," and "Why Mr. Dog Buna 
Brother Rabbit."] 

Tempt," said Uncle Bemus, "I speck it's yo* 
me fer ter put in." 

"I des bin rackin' my min'," said Aunt 
empy, thoughtfully. "1 see you fixin' dat ar 
iwn, un terreckerly hit make me think 'bout a 
lie w'at I ain't year none un you tell yit," 
Its was polishing a long cow's-hom for the pur- 
pose of making a hunting-horn for his master. 

"Hit come "bout one time dat all de creeturs w'at got 
hawQB tuck a notion dat dey got ter meet terge'er un have a 
confab fer ter see how dey gwine take keer deyse'f, kaze dcm 
t'er creeturs w'at got tush un claw, dey uz des a snatchin'- 
um fum 'roun' eve'y comder." 

"Tooby sho," said Uncle Remus, approvingly. 
"Dey Bout out wud, de hawn creeturs did, un dey tuck'n 
meet terge'er way off in de woods. Man— Sir, — dey wuz a 
big gang un um, un de muster dey had out dar 'twan't b'ar 
tellin' skacely. Mr. Bnll, he 'uz dar, un Mr. Steer, un Miss 

■OopTii^t, IBSt. br The Cratair Co., ud IBBS, br Jo«l Ohiadln Hurli. 
Prl«t«d bj (pcd*! permlHlon of Booihlon, Hlffllu A Co., pnUtohtn of "Mlgbta 


SOS ct)e ^eabet 

"And Mr. Benjamin Bam, with his fiddle," SDggested the 
little boy. 

"Yea, 'a Mr. Billy Goat, on Mr. TJnicom" — 

"En ole man BinoesyhoBB," said Uncle Betnns. 

"Yes, 'n lota mo' w'at I ain't know de names on. Man — 
Sir,— dey had a mighty muater out dar. Ole Brer Wolf, he 
tack's year 'bout de muater, un he aech a emarty dat nothin' 
ain't gwine do but he mua' go un eee w'at dey doin'. 

"He Btady 'bout it long time, on den he vent oat in de 
timber un cut 'im two crooked sticks, un tie um on his head, 
un start off to whar de hawn creeturB meet at. Wen he git 
dar Mr. Bull ax 'im who ie he, w'at be want, whar he come 
fnim, un whar he gwine. Brer Wolf, he 'low : 

" 'Ba-a- ! I'm name little Sook Calf.' " 

"£h-eh ! Look out, now," exclaimed Tildy, enthoaiaatic- 


"Mr. Bull look at Brer Wolf mighty hard over his apeckB, 
but att«r a w'ile he go off aome'rs else, un Brer WoLf t^e hii 
place in de muster. 

"Well, den, bimeby, terreckerly, dey got ter talking' im 
tellin' der 'sperence des like de wite folks does at claa> 
meetin'. Wiles dey 'us gwine on dis away, a great big boss- 
fiy come sailin' 'round, un Brer Wolf tudrn fergit hisse'f, un 
anap at 'im. 

"All dis time Brer Rabbit bin hidin' out in de bushes 
vatchin' Brer Wolf, un w'en he see dis he tucJc'n break out 
in a laugh. Brer Bull, he tuck'n holler out, he did : 

" "Who dat laughin' un showin' der manners?' 

"Nobody ain't make no answer, un terreckerly Brer Babbit 
holler out : 

" '0 kittle-cattle, kittle-cattle, whar yo' eyes ? 
Who ever see a Sook Calf snappin' at flies P 

"De hawn creeturs dey all look 'roun' un wonder w'at dat 
mean, but bimeby dey go on wid dey confab. 'Twan't long 
fo' a flea tuck'n bite Brer Wolf 'way up on de back er de 
neck, un 'fo' he know what he doin' he tuck'n squat right 
down un scratch hisse'f wid his behine foot" 

"Enty," exclaimed Daddy Jack. "Dar you is," said 

"Brer Babbit, he tuck'n broke out in n'er big lau^ tm 
'etorb um all, un den he holler out: 

" 'Scritchum-Bcratchum, lawsy, my laws! 
Look at dat Sook Calf scratchin wid dawa.' 


"Brer Wolf git might; ekeer'd, but none er de hawn cree- 
ton ain't take no notice tin 'im, un 'tvtiu't long 'fo Brer 
Babbit holler oat ag'in : 

" 'Rinktam-tinktiim, ride 'im on a rail I 
Dat Sook Calf got a long, bmhy tail.' 

"De havn creeture, dey go on wid der confab, bnt Brer 
Wolf git Bkeerder tin ekeerder, kaze he notice dat Hr. Bull 
sot his eye on 'm. Brer Rabbit, he ain't gin 'im no rest. He 
fioUer out : 

" 'One un one never kin make six ; 

Sticks ain't hawns, un hawns ain't sticks ' 

"Wid dat Brer WoK make ez ef he gwine way ftim dar, 
un he wan't none too soon, needer, kaze ole Mr. Bull eplonge 
at *im, en little mo' nn he'd er natally to' 'im in two." 

"Did Brother Wolf get away ?" the little boy asked. 

"Yaa, Lord," said Aunt Tempy, with unction; "he de« 
acooted 'way fiun dar, un he got so mad wid Brer Babbit, dat 
he tuck'n play dead, un wud went 'roun' dat dey want all 
de creeturs fer ter go set up wid 'im. Brer Babbit, he went 
down dar fer ter look at 'im, un time he see 'im, he ax : 

"Is hegrinyit?' 

"All de creeturs dey up'n say he ain't grin, not ez dey 
knows un. Den Brer Rabbit, he low, he did : 

" 'Well, den, gentermtms, all, ef he ain't grin, den he ain't 
dead good. In all my 'speunce folks ain't git dead good tell 
dey grins." 

"W'en Brer Wolf year Brer Babbit talk day away, he 
tuck'n grin fnm year ter year, un Brer Babbit, he picked up 
his hat tm walking'-cane un put out fer home, un w'en he got 
way off in de woods he sot down un langh fit ter kill hisses." 

Uncle Remus had paid Aunt Tempy the extraordinary 
tribute of pausing ui his work to listen to her story, and when 
she had conclud^ it, he looked at her in undisguised admira- 
tion, and exclaimed : 

"I be bless, Sis Tempy, ef you ain't wusa'n w'at I is, en 
Vm bad nnff, de Lord knows I is." 


Cbe ^eabet 

A Summer Lullaby 


The BUD has gone from the Bhining skiefl, 

Bye, baby, bye. 
The dandelioiu have clraed their eyes. 

Bye, baby, bye. 
And the stare are lighting their lampe to see 
If the babies and birds and squirrels all three 
Are sound asleep as they ought to be, 

Bye, baby, bye. 

The squirrel is dressed in a coat of gray ; 

Bye, baby, bye. 
He wears it by night ae veil as by day ; 

Bye, baby, bye. 
The robin sleeps in bis feathers and down, 
With the varm red breast and the wings of brown. 
But Uie baby wears a little white gown ; 

Bye, baby, bye. 

The squirrel's nest is a hole in the tree ; 

Bye, baby, bye. 
There he sleeps ae snug as can be ; 

Bye, baby, bye. 
The robin's nest is high o'erhead, 
Where the leafy boughs of the maples spread ; 
But the baby's nest is a little white bed. 

Bye, baby, bye. 


Cbe ^peattec hob 

The First Nowell 

(Old Carol.) 

[This Bclection is well adapted for a claea of childreD, who 
may give the refrain in choniB, each reciting a stanza.] 

The first Nowell the Angel did say. 
Was to three poor Bhepherds in fields as tlicy lay; 
In fields where they lay keeping their sheep 
In a cold winter's night that was so deep. 

Nowell, Nowell, Nowell, Nowell, 

Bom is the King of Israel. 

Tfaey looked up and saw a star 
Shining in the East beyond them far. 
And to the earth it gave great light. 
And BO it continued both day and night 
Nowell, Nowell, — 

And by the light of that same star. 
Three Wise Hen came from country far. 
To seek for a King was their intend 
And to follow the star wherever it went. 
Nowell, Nowell, — 

The star drew nigh to the northwest. 
O'er Bethlehem it took its rest. 
And there it did both stop and stay 
Bight over the place where Jesus lay. 
Nowell, Nowell, — 

Then did they know assuredly 
Within that houee the King did lie; 
One entered in then for to aee. 
And found the babe in poverty. 

Nowell, Nowell, — 

Then entered in those Wise Men three 
Host reverently upon their knee. 
And offered there in His presence 
Both gold, and myrrh, and frankincense. 
Nowell, Nowell, — 


Ctie ^eabec 

Between an oz stall and an ass. 
This child truly there bom He wae; 
For want of clothing they did Him lay 
Id the manger, among the hay. , 

Nowell, Nowell, — 

Thea let us all with one accord 
Sing praises to our heavenly Lord, 
That nath made heaven and eartii of nought^ 
And with His blood mankind hath bought 
Nowell, Nowell, — 

If we in onr time shall do well. 
We shall be free from death and Hell, 
For God hath prepared for us all 
A resting-place in general. 

Nowell, Nowell, Nowell, Nowell^ 

Bom is the King of Israel. 

A Riddle 


(The Vowels.) 

We are little airy creatures. 
All of different voice and featoiee; 
One of 1IB in glass is set, 
One of us you'll find in jet. 
T'other you may see in tin. 
And the fourth a box within. 
If the fifth jon should pursoe, 
It can never fly from yoo. 


Oe ^eata 

Tiny Tim 

(from "A Christmaa Carol.")' 


"And a little child shall lead them." 

T- — — — HE door of Scrooge's counting-house was open, 
that he might keep hiB eye upon his clerk, who, 
in. a dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank, was 
copying letters. Scrooge had a vetj small fire, but 
the clerk's fire was so yery much smaller that it 
looked like one coal. But he cooldn't replenish 
it, for Scrooge kept the coal-boz in his own room ; and so 
surely aa the clerk came in with die shovel the master pre- 
dicted that it would be necessary for them to part. Where- 
fore the clerk put on his white comforter, and tried to warm 
himself at the candle, in which effort, not being a man of 
strong imagination, he failed. 

At length ihe hour of shutting np the counting-house 
arrived. With an ill-will, Scrooge, dismounting from his 
stool, tacitly admitted the fact to the expectant clerk in the 
tank, who instantly snuSed his candle out, and put on his hat. 

"TouTl want aU day to-morrow, I suppose f' 

**If quite convenient, sir." 

*1f s not convenient, and it's not fair. If I was to stop 
half a crown for it, you'd think yourself mightily ill-used, ni 
be bound?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"And yet you don't think me ill-nsed, when I pay a day's 
wages for no work." 

"It's only once a year, sir." 

"A poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every twenty- 
fifth of December. But I suppose you must have the whole 
day. Be here all the earlier next morning." 

The clerk promised that he would ; and Scrooge walked out 
with a growL The oEBce was closed in a twinkling, and the 
clerk, witii the long ends of his white comforter dangling 
below his wust (for he boasted no great-coat), went down a 
aUde, at the end of a lane of boys, twenty times, in honor of 


208 Cbe ^eabet 

ita being Christmas eve, and ttien ran home as bard as he 
could pelt, to plaj at blindman's buff. 

On Chrifitmae Day Bob took Tiny Tim and the two little 
Cratchits to church while Mrs. Cratchit and Peter and 
Belinda stayed at home to prepare the wonderful ChrlBtmaa 

Mrs. Cratchit, dreesed out but poorly in a twice-tamed 
gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap and make a 
goodly show for sixpence, laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda 
C'ratcliit, second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons; 
while Master Peter Cratchit plunged a fork into the saucepan 
of potatoes, and, getting the comers of his monstrous shirt- 
collar (Bob's private property, conferred upon his son and 
beir in honor of the day) into his mouth, rejoiced to find 
bimeelf so gallantly attired, and yearned to show his linen 
in the fashiooable parks. And now two smaller Cratchits, 
boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming that outside tiie 
biker's they bad smelt the goose, and &own it for their 
own ; and basking in luxurious thoughts of sage and onion, 
these young Cratchits danced about the table, and exalted 
Master Peter Cratchit to the skies, while he (not proud, al- 
though his collar nearly choked him) blew &e fire, until the 
slow potatoes, bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan- 
lid to be let out and peeled. 

"What has ever got your precious father then?" said Mrs. 
Cratchit. "And your brother Tiny Tim? And Martha 
wam't as late last Christmas day by hialf an hour." 

"Here's Martha, mother !" said a girl, appearing as she 

"Here's Martha, mother," cried the two young Cratchits. 
"Hurrah ! There's such a goose, Martha !" 

"Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late yon are !" 
said Mrs. Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off 
her shawl and bonnet for her. 

"We'd a deal of work to finish up last night," replied the 
girl, "and had to clear away this morning, mother." 

"Well, never mind, eo long as you are come," said Mrs. 
Cratchit. "Sit ye down before the fire, my dear, and have a 
warm. Lord bless ye." 

"Ko, no. There's father coming," cried the two young 
Cratchits, who were everywhere at once. "Hide, Martha, 

So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father. 


die ^eabet 209 

with at le&st three feet of comforter, exclaaiTe of the fringe, 
hanging down before him; and hiB threadbare clothee darned 
up and brushed, to look seaaonable ; and Tinj Tim upon his 
Bhoulder. Alaa for Tin; Tim t he bore a little crutch, aod 
had his limbs supported by an iron frame. 

"Why, Where's our Martha?" cried Bob Cratchlt, looking 

"Not coming," said Mrs. Cratchlt. 

"Not coming," said Bob, with a sudden declension in his 
hi^ spirits; for he had been Tim's blood-horse all the way 
from church, and had come home rampant, — "not coming 
upon Christmas day 1" 

Uartha didn't lilce to see him disappointed, if it were only 
in joke; so she came out prematurely from behind the closet 
door, and ran into his arms, while the two young Cratchlta 
hustled Tiny Tim, and bore him off into the wash-house, that 
he might hear the pudding singing in the copper. 

"And how did little Tim behave?" asked Urs. Cratchit, 
when she had rallied Bob on his credulity, and Bob had 
hugged his dau^ter to his heart's content. 

"As good as gold," said Bob, "and better. Somehow he 
gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the 
strangest things you ever heard. He told me, coming home, 
that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he 
was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember, 
upon Christmas day, who made lame b^gars walk and blind 
men see." 

Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this, and 
trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing 
strong and hearty. 

His active little cmtcb was heard upon the floor, and back 
came Tiny Tim before another word was spoken, escorted by 
his brother and sister to his stool beside the fire; and while 
Bob, turning np his cuffs, — as if, poor fellow, they were capa- 
ble of being made more shabby, — compounded some hot mix- 
tore in a jug with gin and lemons, and stirred it round and 
round and put it on the hob to simmer, Uaster Peter and the 
two ubiquitous young Cratcbits went t^ fetch the goose, with 
which they soon returned in high procession. 

Ht8. Cratchit made the gravy (ready beforehand in a little 
saucepan) hissing hot; Master Peter mashed the potatoes 
with incredible vigor; Miss Belinda sweetened up the apple- 
sauce; Martha dusted the hot plat^; Bob took Tiny Tim 


210 ette ^eabec 

beaide him in a tiny comer at the table; the two young 
Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting themselves, 
and, mounting guard upon their posts, crammed spoona into 
their mouths, lest they should sl^iek for goose before their 
turn came to be helped. At last the dishes were set on, and 
grace vaa eaid. It waa succeeded by a breathless pause, as 
Mrs. Cratchit, looking all along the carying-knife, prepared 
to plunge it in the breast ; but when she did, and when the 
long-expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of 
delight arose aU round the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited 
by the two young Cratchite, beat on the table with the handle 
of his knife, and feebly cried. Hurrah 1 

There never vras such a goose. Bob said be didn't believe 
there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and 
flavor, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal 
admiration. Eked out by apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it 
was a sufficient dinner for the whole family ; indeed, as Ura. 
Cratchit said, with great delight (surveying one small atom 
of a bone upon the dish), they hadn't ate it all at last. Yet 
every one had had enough, and the youngest Cratchits in par- 
ticular were steeped in sage and onion to the eyebrows. But 
now, the plates being changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit 
left the room alone, — too nervous to bear witnesses, — to take 
the pudding up, and bring it in. 

Suppose it should not be done enough 1 Suppose it ehould 
break in turning out ! Suppose somebody should have got 
over the wall of the back yard, and stolen it, while they were 
merry with the goose, — a supposition at which the two young 
Cratchits became livid. All sorts of horrors were supposed. 

Hallo [ A great deal of steam. The pudding was out of 
the copper. A smell like a washing-day. That waa the cloth. 
A smell like an eating-house and a pastry-cook's next door to 
«ach other, with a laundress's next door to tliat. Th&t was 
the pudding. In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered, — 
flushed, but smiling proudly, — with the pudding, like a 
speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half 
a quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas 
Iiolly stuck into the top. 

0, a wonderful pudding! Bob Cratchit said, and calmly, 
too, that he regarded it as the greatest success achieved by 
Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs. Cratchit said that 
now the weight was o£E her mind, she would confess she had 
had her doubts about the quantity of flour. Everybody had 


g to say about it, but nobod; said or thought it was 
ftt all a amall pudding for a large family. Any Cratchit 
would have blushed to hint at such a thing. 

At last the dinner was alt done, the cloth was cleared, the 
hearth Bwept, and the Ere made up. The compound in the 
jag being taated, and considered perfect, apples and oranges 
were put upon the table, and a shovelful of chestnuts on the 

Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth, in 
what Bob Cratchit called a circle, and at Bob Cratchit's elbow 
stood the family display of glass, — ^two tumblers, and a cus- 
tard-cup without a handle. 

These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as well as 
golden goblets would have done; and Bob served it out with 
beaming looks, while the chestnuts on the fire sputtered and 
crackled noisily. Then Bob proposed : 

"A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us !" 

Which all the family re-echoed. 

"God blees us every one !" said Tiny Tim, the last of all. 

He sat very close to his father's side, upon his little stool. 
Bob held his withered little hand in his, as if he loved the 
child, and wished to keep him by his side, and dreaded that 
he might be taken from him. 

Bob Cratchit told them how he had a situation in his eye 
for Master Peter, which would bring in, if obtained, full five 
and sixpence weekly. The two young Cratchits laughed tre- 
mendously at the idea of Peter's being a man of business; and 
Peter himself looked thoughtfully at the fire from between 
his collars, as if he were deliberating what particular invest- 
ments he should favor when he came into the receipt of that 
bewildering income. All this time the chestnuts and the 
jug went round and round ; and by and by they had a song, 
about the lost child traveling in the snow, from Tiny Tim, 
who had a plaintive little voice, and sang it so well that when 
it waa ended there were tears in every eye. Mrs. Cratchit 
got up and kissed him, and Mar&a kissed him, and tiie little 
Cratchits kissed him, and the father put his arm around him 
and said: 

"My UttlechUdt Hy little child ! Ood bless you 1 God 
bless youl" 

"God bless you, father I Ood bless us I Ood bless us ever) 


Cf)e ftpeabec 
The American Flag 


'When Freedom from her moimtam height 
Unfurled her standard to the air. 

She tore the azure robe of night. 
And Bet the stars of glorj there. 

She mingled with ita gorgeous djes 

The mil^ baldric of the skies, 

And striped its pure, celestial white. 

With etreaktngs of the morning light; 

Then from his mansion ui the sun 

She called her eagle bearer down. 

And gave into his mighty hand 

The symbol of her choeen land. 

Flag of the free heart's hope and home, 

By angel hands to valor given; 
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 

And all thy hues are bom in heaven. 
Forever float that standard sheet ! 

Where breathes the foe but falls before ns. 
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, 

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er ns t 

A Grace for a Child 


Here a little child I stand. 
Heaving up my either hand ; 
Cold as Paddocks though they be, 
Here I lift them up to Thee, 
For a Benizon to fall 
On onr meat, and on us all. Amen. 


Cbe epeaket 
The Fairies 


Up the airy mountain, 

Down Uie rushy glen. 
We daren't go a-hnnting 

For fear of little men; 
Wee folk, good folk. 

Trooping all together : 
Oreen jacket, red cap. 

And white owI'b feather. 

Down along the rocky shore 

Some make their home, 
They live on crispy pancakes 

Of yellow tide-foam; 
Some in the reeds 

Of the black mountain-lake, 
With frogs for their watch-doga. 

All night awake. 

High on the hill-top 

The old King Bits; 
He is now so old and gray 

He's nigh lost his wits. 
With a bridge of white mist 

Columbkill he crosses. 
On hifl stately joumeya 

From Slieveleague to Bosses ; 
Or going up with music 

On cold starry niglite. 
To sup with' the Queen 

Of the gay Northern Lights. 

They stole little Bridget 

For seven years long ; 
When she came down again 

Her friends were all gone. 
They took her lightly back. 

Between the night and morrow. 


Thej thought Bhe was fast aaleep. 
But she was dead with sorrow. 

They have kept her ever aince 
Deep within the lake, 

Od a bed of flag-leavee^ 
Watchiag till abe wdie. 

By the craggy hill-side, 

Through the mosses bare, 
They have planted thom-trees 

For pleasure here and there. 
Is any man bo daring 

As dig them up in spite, 
He shall find their sharpest tbomi 

In his bed at night. 

Up the airy mountain, 

Down the rushy glen. 
We daren't go a-hnntii^ 

For fear of little men; 
Wee folk, good folk. 

Trooping all together; 
Green jacket, red cap. 

And white owl's feather. 

The Rule for Birds' Nesters 

(Old Ehyme.) 

The robin and the red-breast, 

The robin and the wren ; 
If ye take out o' their nest, 

Ye'll never thrive agen. 

The robin and the red-breast, 
The marten and the swallow; 

If ye touch one o' their eiwa, 
Bad luck will surely foDow t 


Queen Mab 


A little fairy comes at night, 

Her eyes are blue, her hair iB brown. 

With Bi]\er spots upon her wings, 

AqcI from the moon she flutters down. 

She has a little silver wand. 
And when a good child goes to bed 

She waves her wand from right to left. 
And makes a circle round its head. 

And then it dreams of pleasant things. 
Of fountains filled with fairy fish. 

And trees that bear delicious fruit. 
And bow their branc)ies at a wish ; 

Of arbors filled with dainty scents 
From lovely flowers that never fade ; 

Bright flies that glitter in the sun. 
And glow-worms shining in the shade. 

And talking birds with gifted tongues, 
For singing songs and telling tales, 

And pretty dwarfs to show the way 
Through fairy hills and fairy dales. 

But when a bad child goes to bed, 
From left to right she weaves her rings, 

And then it dreams all through the night 
Of only ugly, horrid things ! 

Then lions cone with glaring eyes, 
And tigers gi'owl, a dreadful noise, 

And ogres draw their cruel knivcB, 
To shed the blood of girls and boya. 


Cfje %9tabet 

Then stormy wavea nuh on to drown. 
Or raging flames come scorching round. 

Fierce dragons hover in the air. 
And serpents crawl along the ground^ 

Th^i wicked cbildrea wake and weep. 
And wiBb the long, black gloom away; 

But good ones love the dark, and find 
Tt^ night as pleasant ae the day. 

The Star Song 


Tell us, thoa dotr and heavenly tongue, 
wWe is the Babe but lately eprung? 
Lies He the lily-banks among? 

Or say, if this new Birth of ours 
Slee^, laid within some ark of flowers. 
Spangled with dew-light ; thou canst clear 
All doubts, and manifest the where. 

Declare to us, bright star, if we shall seek 
Him in the morning's blushing cheek. 
Or search the beds of spices through. 
To find Him out? 

Star — ^no, this ye need not do ; 
But only come and see Him rest, 
A princely babe, in's mother's breast 


O Little Town of Bethlehem 


little town of Bethlehem, 

How Btill we Bee thee lie ! 
Aix>ve thy deep and dreomlesa sleep 

The silent etare go by ; 
Yet in thy dark streets shineth 

The eTerlasting Light ; 
The hopes and fears of all the yean 

Are met in thee to-night. 

Por Chriflt is bom of Maiy, 

And, gathered all above. 
While mortals sleep, the angels keep 

Their watch of wondering love. 
morning stars, together 

Proclaim the holy birth ! 
And praises sing to God the King, 

And peace to men on eartli. 

How silently, how silently. 

The wondrous gift is given I 
So God imparts to human hearts 

The blessings of His heaven. 
No ear may hear His coming, 

But in this world of sin. 
Where meek souls will receive Him stilly 

The dear Christ enters in. 

holy ChUd of Bethlehem 1 

Descend to us, we pray ; 
Cast out onr sin, and enter in. 

Be bom in us to-day. 
We hear the Christmas angels 

The great glad tidings tell; 
Oh, come to us, abide with ub. 

Our Lord Emmanuel I 


I die SpealKt 

Santa Claus 


He comes in the night I He comes in the night 1 

He softly, silently comes; 
While the little brown heads on the pillows so white 

Are dreaming of bugles and drums. 
He cuts through the snow like a ship through the foam. 

While the white Sakes around him whirl ; 
Who tells him I know not, but he findeth the home 

Of each good little boy and girl. 

His sleigh it is long, and deep, and wide; 

It will carry a host of things. 
While dozens of drums hang over the side, 

With the sticks sticking under the strings. 
And yet not the sound of a drum is heard. 

Not a bugle blast is blown. 
As he mounts to the chimney-top like a bird. 

And drops to the hearth like a stone. 

The little red etockings he silently fills, 

Till the Bfwkinga will hold no more ; 
The bright little sleds for the great snow hills 

Are quickly set down on the floor. 
Then Santa Claus mounts to the roof like a bird, 

And glides to his seat in the sleigh; 
Not the sound of a bugle or drum is beard 

As he noiselessly gallops away. 

He rides to the East, and he rides to the West, 

Of his goodies he touches not'one; 
He eateth the crumbs of the Christmas feast 

Wlien the dear little folks are done. 
Old Santa Claus doeth all that he can; 

This beautiful mlEsion is his; 
Then, children, be good to the little old man. 

When you find who (he little man is. 




God of our fathers, known of old — 
Lord of onr far-flung battle-line — 

Beneath whoee awful band we hold 
Dominion over palm and pine — 

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 

Leat we forget — lest we forget. 

The tumult and the shouting dies — 
The captains and the kings depart — > 

Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice, 
An humble and a contrite heart. 

Lord God of Hosta, be with us ;e^ 

Leat we forget — ^leet we forget. 

Far-called our navies melt away — 

On done and headland sinks the fire—* i 

Lo, all our pomp of yesterday 
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre. 

Judge of the Nations, spare ua yet. 

Lest we forget — lest we forget. 

If, drunk with sight of power, we looae 
Wild tongues that have not Thee in aw»- 

Snch boasting ae the Gentiles use 
Or lesser breeds without the law — - 

Lord God of Hosts, be with ua yet. 

Lest we forget — lest we forget 

For heathen heart that puts her trust 
In reeking tube and iron shard — 

All valiant dust that builds on dust. 
And guarding calls not Thee to gnard-M' 

For frantic boa«t and foolish word, 
. Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord. Amen. ' 


The Bonniest Bairn in a' the 


The bonnieet bairn is a' the warl* 
Has skin like the drifted snaw. 
An' roay wee cheeks sae eaft an' sleek— 

There never was ither sic twa ; 
Its een are just bonnie wee wander'd stars. 

Its leggies are plump like a farl. 
An' ilk ane maun see't, an' a' maon declar't 
The cleverest bairn, 
The daintiest bairn, 
The rosiest, cosiest, cantiest bairn. 
The dearest, queerest. 
Rarest, fairest, 
Bonnieet bairn in a' the warl'. 

The bonniest bairn in a' the wari' 

Ye ken whaur the ferlie lives? 
It's doon in yon howe, it's owre yon knowe — 

In the laps o* a thonsand wives ; 
If s up an' ayont in yon castle brent, 

Tlie heir o' the belted earl ; 
It's sookin its thoomh in yon gipsy tent — 
The cleverest bairn. 
The daintiest baim, 
The rosiest, cosiest, cantiest bairn, 
The deareat, queerest. 
Rarest, fairest, 
Bonniest baim in a' the varl*. 


The Flag Goes By 


Along the Btreet there comes 
A blM« of bugles, a rufile of dmioB, 
A flash of color beneath the skj : 

Hate off 1 
Hie flag 18 paseing by [ 

Blue and crimeoD and white it shines, 
Over the eteel-tipped, ordered linee. 

Hats off [ 
The colors before us fly ; 
But more than the flag is passing by. 

Sea-%ht8 and land-fights, grim and great, 
Pbnght to make and to save the State : 
Weary marches and sinking ships; 
Cheers of victory on dying lips; 

Days of plenty and years of peace ; 
March of a strong land's swift increase; 
Equal justice, right and law. 
Stately honor and reverend awe ; 

Sign of a uatioD, great and strong 
To ward her people from foreign wrong: 
Pride and glory and honor, — all 
Live in the colors to stand or fall. 

Hats off I 
Along the street there comes 
A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums; 
And loyal hearts are beating high : 

Hats off ! 
The flag is passing by I 


cue Weaker 


Weuied arm and broken sword 
Wage in vain the desperate flght ; 

Bound him press a countleee horae, 
He is but a single knight. 

Hark I a cry of triumph ehrill 
Through the wildemess resoiindfl, 
Aa, with twenty bleeding v^ounds, 

Sinks the warrior, fighting still. 

Now they heap the funeral pyre. 
And the torch of death they light; 

Ah t 'tia hard to die by fire I 
Who will shield the captive knight P 

Bound the stake with fiendish cry 
Wheel and dance the savage crowd. 
Cold the victim's mien and proud. 

And his breast is bared to die. 

Who will shield the fearless heart? 

Who avert the murderous blade ? 
From the throng with sudden start 

See, there springs an Indian maid. 
Quick she stands before the knight : 

"Loose the chain, unbind the ring. 

I am daughter of the king. 
And I claim the Indian right!" 

Dauntlesely aside she fiings 
Lifted axe and thirsty knife. 

Fondly to hia heart she clings, 
And her bosom guards his life. 

In the woods of Powhatan 
Still 'tis told by Indian fires 
How a daughter of their sires 

Saved a captive Englishman. 


A Farewell 


My fairest child, I haye no song to give you; 

No lark could pipe to skies so dull acd gray; 
Tot, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you 
For every day. 

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; 

Do noble things, not dream them, all day long ; 
And so make life, death, and that vast forever 
One grand, sweet song. 

The Shepherd Boy Sings 

{"In the FaiZey of Humiliation.'*) 

He that is down needs fear no fall. 

He that is low, no pride ; 
He that is humble ever shall 

Have God to be his guide. 

I am content with what I have. 

Little be it or much : 
And, Lord, contentment still I crave, 

Because Thou savest such. 

Fullness to such a burden is 

That go on pilgrimage: 
Here little, and hereafter bliss. 

Is best from age to age. 


Two Apple-Howling Songs 

(Old Rhymes.) 

I. Subset. 
Here stands b good apple tree. 
Stand fast at root, 
B^r veil at top ; 
Every little twig 
Bear an apple big; 
Every little bon^ 
Bear an apple dot ; 
Hats full I caps full I 
Threescore sacks full I 
Hollo, boys ! hollo t 

II. Devokshibe. 
Here's to thee, old apple tree. 
Whence thou may'at bud, and whence thon may'st View, 
And whence thon ma/st bear apples enow I 
Hats foil ! Cape foil ! 
Bushel — bushel — sacks foil, 
Old parson's breeches full, 
And my pockets fnll, too 1 
Huzza I 

* ♦ 

A Boy's Prayer 


God who created me 

Nimble and light of limb, 
Id three elements free. 

To run, to ride, to swim : 
Kot when the sense is dim. 

But now from the heart of ]oy, 
I would remember Him : 

Take the thanks of a boy. 


Cbe ^eaber 


So here bsth been dawning 
Another blue day: 

Think, wilt thou let it 
Slip nselees aw&y? 

Out of Eternity 

This new da; was bom ; 
Into Eternity, 

At night, will letam. 

B^old it aforetime 

No eye ever did; 
So eooD it for ever 

From all eyes is hid. 

Here hath been dawning 
Another bine day : 

Think, wilt thon let it 
Slip useless away ? 

Be True 


Thou mnBt be true thyself. 
If thou the truth wo^dst teadi; 

Thy eoul must overflow, if thou 
Another's sonl wouldst reach; 

It needs the overflow of heart 
To give the lips full speech. 

Think truly, and thy thooghta 
Shall the world's famine feed ; 

Speak truly, and each word of thine 
Shall be a fruitful seed ; 

Live truly, and thy life shall be 
A great and noble creed. 


cue ftpealtet 
My Native Land 

(From "The Lay of the Last Minstrel") 

Breathes there a man with soul so dead, 
Who never to hunaelf hath said, 

"This is my own, mj native land"? 
Whose heart hath ne'er within him bnmed. 
As home his footsteps he hath turned. 

From wandering on a foreign strand? 
If such there breathe, go, mark him w^. 
For him no minstrel's raptures swell. 
High though hia titles, proud bis name, 
Boundlesa his wealth as wish can claim, — 
Despite those titles, power, and pelf. 
The wretch concentred all in self. 
Living shall forfeit fair renown. 
And, doubly dying, shall go down 
To the vile dust from whence he sprung. 
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 

Green Things Growing 


Ob, the green things growing, the green things growing. 
The faint sweet smell of the green things growing 1 
I should like to live, whether I smile or grieve. 
Just to watch the happy life of my green things growing. 

Oh, the fluttering and the pattering of those green things 

How they talk each to each, when none of us are knowing; 
In the wonderful white of tiie weird moonlight 
Or the dim, dreary dawn when the cocks are crowing. 

I love, I love them so, — ^my green things growing; 
And I think that ihty tove me, without false showing; 
Vor by many a tender touch, they comfort me so mucl^ 
With the soft mute comfort of green things growing. 


The Wonderful Country of 


Did yon ever hear of Qood-Boy-Land, 

The wonderful country of Good- Boy-land ? 

Where houses of taffy, on eyery hand. 

And mountains of plum-cake and gingerbread stand; 

Where the streets are all paved wii£ doughnuts brown. 

And a wall of sweet atmonda surrounds each town ; 

Where a lemonade sea meets a white sugar strukd — 

Oh, believe me I 'tis jolly in Oood-Boy-Land. 

Uarhles, both agates and snappers, are there. 

Common as dust in the streets and the sqitare; 

Peg-tops, in place of green leaves on the treea. 

Whiz in tiie sunshine and hum in the breeze ; 

Bicycles roll in a very queer way 

Over the meadows and bide in the hay ; 

While for velocipedes, running so quick, 

Toa'd hit half a dozen in throwing a stick — 

Never before was a country so grand 

As the wonderful kingdom of Good-Boy-Land I 

Wait till I tell yon the very strange rules 

Followed in all their most flourishing schools I 

Out in the gardens their class-rooms are set 

(They never have rain, so they cannot get wet). 

And there upon bushes the lessons all grow; 

Plums of arithmetic hang in a row, 

Apples of history, grapes of fine writing. 

Drooping in clusters so sweet and inviting. 

LoBcious ripe pears, tumbling into their laps, 

Full of geography questions and maps; 

Nuts full of spelling, and oranges sweet, 

With algebra problems all ready to eat; 

Believe me or not, this is certainly so, 

And the more that you swallow the more yon will knov. 

lien in the winter 'tis like to a dream. 

With frozen pudding and fine ice cream. 

Bat no more cold than a summer day. 

And the garden of lessons in bloom alwayl 


8 C1)C ^(abet 

Merry, Bweet girls and bonny, brown boys 
Devouring their studies and picking their toys. 
Filling their lives in the joUiest way 
With datea and statietice, with sums and croquet. 
For a dunce was a thing that they never could staiid 
In that wonderful country of Good-Boy-I^nd I 

Never a quarrel, and never a scold. 
Never a cough tiiere, and never a cold. 
Nobody dirty, and nobody bold. 
No one too hot there, and no one too cold ; 
Nobody ever comes walking down etair. 
Bat slides on the banister, feet in the air; 
Everyone knows how to swim and to row. 
Everyone owns both a gun and a bow, 
A baseball, a football, a jackknife, a watch, 
A great pocket full of the best butter-scotch, 
And this is the pleasantest part of the frolic — 
Ton can eat it dl day without getting the colic I 
Oh, where is the government ever was fanned 
Witit such law and such order as Qood-Boy-Land ? 

Dolls there are thicker than crows in the com. 
Beautiful French ones as ever were bom ; 
Story books splendid in colors and gold, 
(Full of such stories as never were told ; 
There's nothing to tear there, and notlung to mend. 
And everyone's everyone else's best friend; 
Iiste you get up there, and late yon lie down, 
And always you wear a Kate Qreenaway gown ; 
The wee-est wee girl both dances and sings 
(You see it's like heaven, but no one has wings)', 
'And four-button gloves hang in pairs on each huid^ 
In that wonderful country of Qood-Boy-Land 1 

Where is the country ? and how do you go ? 

Well, that's just the thing I am dying to know I 

Somewhere, I judge, in the moon or tiie stars, 

Perhaps it is Venus, perhaps it is Usrs ; 

And you travel — who knows ? by the boat or the train, 

Which leads one direct to the Castles-in-Spain, 

Or some roundabout way that's not easy to leam, 

In a kind of balloon that is made by Jules Verne, 

Or a telegraph wire, or the wings of a bird — 

But I'll find the way first, and then send you back word. 


The Fir-Tree 


[Edward Everett Hale says: "Hans Christian Andeimn 
is the Dane epokea of most often in the literary circles of the 
world. I do not venture to describe the indescribable, and so 
I will not try to analyze the charm of Andereen's children's 
Btoriee. They can speak for themselves. They do speak for 
tbemselves in the memories of all those young people who, 
if I may say so, were brought up on them. There ia senti- 
ment in them, because there is sentiment in all life; but it is 
not a morbid or manufactured sentiment. It is the senti- 
ment which belongs to the occasion." "The Fir-Tree" ia a 
favorite with children in every land.] 

NCE upon a time there stood in the depths of a 
forest a pretty little fir-tree. It was placed very 
nicely, for it could get as much sunshine and air 
as it wanted, and it was surrounded by a number 
of taller companions, both firs and pines. But 

the little fir-tree did so long to grow taller! 

When it was winter, and tlie white snow lay in dazzling sheets 
upon the ground, a hare would frequently jump right over 
the little tree, and that vexed it sorely I 

"0 1 could I but grow and grow, and become tall and old I 
That is the only thing worth caring for in this world." 

"Enjoy your youth," said the sunbeams; "enjoy your 
freeh growth, and your young existence, while it lasts." 

And the wind kissed Uie tree, and the deer shed tears over 
it; but the fir-tree could not understand either of them. 
When Christmas was drawing near, some very young trees 
were felled ; several trees, indeed, that were neither so tall nor 
so oid as this particular fir-tree, which could not rest for 
loDginj^ to get away from its native place. 

'TVTiither can they be going?" asked our fir-tree. "They 
are not taller than I am ; on the contrary, there was one much 
smaller than myself. What is to be done with them ?" 

"We know — ve know," twittered the sparrows, "for we 
have looked in at the windows in yonder town! We saw 


230 cctie ^eabet 

throagh the vindoTs, how they were stuck up in ft warm 
room And ornamented with a host ot fine things, such ae gilt 
apples, ginger-bread, and playthings, besides hundreds of 

"I wonder whether I am destined to so brilliant a career I" 
exclaimed the fir-tree in ecstasy. "How I do long for 
Christmas to come roond again 1" 

And when Christmas came be was felled before any of the 
others. The axe cloye right through his pith, and down he 
fell with a groan ; it was like a pang, or a fainting-fit. When 
he recover^, he found himself in a fine large room. He was 
placed in a large barret filled with sand ; but nobody could 
perceive it was a barrel, as it was covered roand with green 
baize, and stood on a handsome carpet. Oh I how the tree 
quaked 1 What was going to be done? Two well-dressed ser- 
Tants and some beautiful young ladies helped to adorn it 
Qilt apples and walnuts hung down from ^e branches as if 
they had grown there; and above a hundred tapers — ^white, 
bloe and red — were fastened to the branches, and on the top- 
most summit was fastened a star, all over spangles, that was 
right toyally splendid to behold. 

"This evening it will shine most gloriously," they all 

"Oht" thought the tree, "if it were but evening! If the 
tapers could bat be lighted ! And then what is to be done 
next? 1 wonder whether the trees from our forest will come 
and admire me I And whether the sparrows will peep in 
through the window-panes." 

These reflections were all very well, only the tree's long- 
ings were bo intense that his bark ached again through im- 
patience; and barkacke is just as bad for a tree as headache 
is with us. 

At length the tapers were lit ; and a grand sight it was, to 
be sure. And now the folding doors were thrown open, and 
in rushed a whole troop of cnildren, as though they would 
overturn the tree, while their elders followed in a more leis- 
urely manner. The little ones stood dumb-struck for a mo- 
ment, and then directly after set up such shouts of ]oy that 
the room rang with the sound. They danced round the tree, 
and one present after another was plucked off from its 
brandies, till not one was left ; only the gold star was still 
shining at the top. 

"A story I Let's have a story !" cried the children, pulling 


E thick-Bet man towarde the tree under which he took hif 
Bent "Now we are in the ehade, and of course the tree will 
reap great advantage by listening to what we say. Shall it 
be 'Ivede-Avede' or 'Hmnpty-Ihinipty' ?" 

" 'Ivede-Avede' !" cried Btane ; " 'Hnmpty-Dumpty' I" 
cried others. And a fine screaming and sqiiallicg there was I 
The fir-tree alone wbs silent, though he said to hunself, "Am 
I not to have a finger in the pie?" For he had played his 
part as well as anybody else that evening. And the man told 
the story of "Hnmpty-Dumpty," who fell downstairs, and 
yet was raised to high honors, and obtained the princees'e 
hand. The fir-tree stood in pensive silence. The birds in 
the wood had never told him anything of the kind. 

"Hnmpty-Dnmpty fell downstairs, and yet obtained a 
princess ! So who Imows but what I may fall downstairs and 
obtain a princess ?" And he rejoiced to think that next day 
he would again be decked out wi& tapers, playttungs, gold, 
and fruit. 

"To-morrow I will not tremble," thought the tree. "I 
will enjoy my grandeur. To-morrow I shall bear the story 
of Humpty-Ptunpty again, and perhaps that of Ivede- 
Avede." And the tree remained silent and thoughtfid 
throughout the whole night. 

Nert morning the man-servant and the maid came in. 
"Now I'm going to be tricked out again in all my finery I" 
tboD^t the tree. But they dragged him out of the rooms, 
and upstairs, and then fiung him on the floor in a dark cor- 
ner, where daylight never shone. "Whafs the meaning of 
aD this?" thought the tree. "What shall I do here F How 
nice it was to be in the forest where the enow was lying on the 

Cund, and the hare used to jump past me — or even when he 
^}ed over me, though I was not well pleased at the time, I 
remember. It is so dreadfully lonely here!" "Peep I 
peep !" squeaked a little mouse, stealing fortii, followed by 
another. They sniffed at the fir-tree. 

"Where do you come from?" inquired the mice, "and 
whafs your name ?" 

"I come from our forest where the sun shines, and the 
birds eing." And then he related the story of his youth, and 
the mice, who had never heard the like before, listened very 
attentively, and then observed : "How much you have seen, 
and how happy you have been t" 

"I happy I" ezd&imed the fir-tree, and then he thought 


Hi Cbe ^eabec 

over all he had told. "Well, those were, to be Bore, rather 
pleasant tintee." And then be related all about Chriatmas 
eve, and how he was decked out with cakes and tapers. 

"What pretty things you do relate I" said the little mice. 
And the following night they returned with foor other little 
mice, that they might hear the tree tell his story; and the 
oftener he told it, the more distinctly he remembered every- 
thingi and he could not help thinking, "Those were right 
pleasant times, but they will not come over again." 

The fir-tree then related the whole story of Hompty- 
Dompty, eyery word of which he remembered ; and the little 
mice were fit to jump to the top of the tree with delight. 

But the fir-tree loiew only this one story, and the little 
mice finished by staying away, and then the tree said, with a 
aigh, "It was very nice when those sympathizing little mice 
osed to sit all round me, and listen to my story. Nov that 
is over, too. But I shall think of those times, and enjoy the 
recollections of them, when I shall be removed once mora 
from this place." 

But what, think you, happened ? Why, one morning there 
ctme some people, and the tree was drawn forth, and taken 
down to a garden, where everything was in full bloom. Two 
of the lively children who hiad danced round the tree and 
taken such delight in it at Christmas, ran and tore o£E the 
gold star. 

"Ifa all gone and past," said the old tree. "Would I had 
known my own happiness while it lasted ! Ifa past — ^past 
forever !" 

A lad now came and chopped the tree into small fagots, 
which were then made into a bundle. It now burned up 
briskly under a large brewing-copper, and the tree sighed so 
deeply that every sigh was like a little pistol-shot. The tree 
was thinking of some summer's day in the forest, or of some 
winter's night when the stars shone brightly; he thon^t, 
too, of Christmas, and of Humpty-Dumpty, the only atory 
he had ever heard, or knew how to tell ; and then the tree was 
burned to ashes. The boys played in the garden, and the 
youngest wore upon his breast the gilt star that the tree had 
worn on its happiest evening, which was long since over, as 
all waa over with the tree, and must now be with the story; 
for all stories must finish at last 


cue ^ealter »33 

From a Railway Carriage 


[SteTeoflon had a real childhood. As Profeaaor W. P. 
Trent says in his delightful introductioa to "StevenBoa''B 
Poems" (Crowell), "Indeed he never throughoat his life 
ceased to be a child. Hence, when he laid out his 'Garden,' 
he actually took walks in it, swung in its trees, peeped over 
its walls. He made a wonderfully successful book because 
he based it on real experience. He put himself into it, as he 
was Btill half a child, and as all children, whether British or 
French, or Samoou, delighted him and he them, he was sure 
to please every javenile reader, while being his whimsical, 
clever, lovable self, he was sure to please adult readers just as 
much or more."] 

Faster than fairies, faster than witches. 
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches; 
And charging along like troops in a battle. 
And through the meadows the horses and cattle; 
All of the sights of the hill and the plain 
Fly as thick as driving raiu; ^ 

And ever again, in the wink of an eye,' 
Painted stations whistle by. 

Here is a child who clambers and scrambles, 
All by himself and gathering brambles ; 
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes ; 
And there is the green for stringing the daisies. ^ 
Here is a cart run away in the road 
Lumping along with man and load ; 
And here is a mill and there is a river : , 
Each a glimpse and gone for ever.^ 


The Land of Nod 


From breakfast on through all the day. 
At home among my friends I etay; 
Bat eveiy night I go abroad 
Afar into the land of Nod. 

All hj mjBelf I have to go. 

With none to tell me what to do — 

All alone beside the Btreams 

And up the moontain-sidee of dieamB. 

The strangest things are there for m^ 
Both things to eat and things to see. 
And many frightening sights abroad 
Till morning in the land of Nod. 

Try as I like to find the way, 
I never can get back by day. 
Nor can remember plain and clear 
The cnrions music that I hear. 

* * 

Whole Duty of Children 


A child should always say whafs trae 
And speak when be is spoken to. 
And behave mannerly at table ; 
At least as far as be is able. 


The Story of Joseph 

{Arranged from Oeneait, chapters thirty-geven to forty-five.) 

[If we traced our liter&ture to its eoorce, we would be Bar- 
prised to find how much of it has been suggested b; the Bible. 
It is the luuTersal testimony of the creators of literature that 
has lived that the Bible has influenced them more than any 
book that ever was written. Many of the Bible stories are as 
absorbiiig in interest as this story of Joseph, which has been 
tested and found to be most satisfying and fascinating to 
children. Tou cannot feed a child on adulterated sweet- 
meats and then expect in the adult a taste for the substantial 
in literature.] 

IB dwelt in the land of Canaan, and Joseph, 

ing seventeen years old, was feeding the flock 

ith his brethren. Jacob now loved Joseph 

ore than all his children, because he was the 

D of his old age ; and he made him a coat of 

any colors. And when his brethren saw that 

vei him more than all his brethren, they hated 

him, and could not speak peaceably unto him. And Joseph 

dreamed a dream, and he told it his brethren : and they hated 

him yet the more. And he said unto them. Hear, I pray you, 

this dream which I have dreamed: For, behold, we were 

blading sheaves ih the field, and, lo, my sheaf arose, and also 

stood upright; and behold, your sheaves stood round about, 

and made obeisance to my aheaf. And his brethren eeii to 

him, Shalt thou indeed reign over us? or shalt thou indeed 

have dominion over us? And they hated him yet the more 

for his dreams, and for his words. 

And his brethren went to feed their father's flock in 
Shechem. And Joseph went after his brethren. And when 
they saw him afar off, even before he came near unto tbem, 
tliey conspired against him to slay him. And they said one 
to another, Behold, this dreamer cometh. Come now there- 
fore, and let us slay him, and cast him into some pit, and we 
will say. Some evil beast devoured him ; and we shall see what 
will become of his dreams. And it came to pass, when 


836 cbe ^eafaet 

JoBeph vu come unto his brethren, that they stripped Joeepb 
out of his coat, his coat of man; colore, that was on him ; 
And thej took him, and cast him into a pit, and they lifted , 
np their eyes and looked, and, behold, a company of Ishmael- 
itea came from Qilead, with their camels bearing spiceiy and 
balm and myrrh, going to carry it down to Egypt. And 
Jndah said unto bis brethren, What profit is it if we slay oar 
brother, and conceal his blood ? Come, and let us sell him 
to the Ishmaelites, and let not our hand be upon him; for he 
is our brother and our flesh : and bis brethren were content, 
and they lifted up Joseph out of the pit, and sold him to the 
Ishmaelites for twenty pieces of silver; and they brought 
Joseph into Egypt. And his brethren took Joseph's coat, and 
killed a kid of the goats, and'dlpped the coat in the blood; 
And they took the coat of many colors, and they brought it 
to their father; and said, This have we found: know now 
whether it be thy son's coat or no. And he knew it, and aaid. 
It is my son's coat ; an evil beast hath devoured him ; Joseph 
is without doubt rent in pieces. And Jacob rent his clothes, 
and put sackcloth upon his loins, and mourned for his son 
many days. 

And Joseph was brought down to Egypt ; and Potiphar, an 
officer of Pharaoh, captain of the guard, an Egyptjan, bought 
him of the hands of the Ishmaelites, which had brought him 
down thither. And the Lord was with Joseph, and he was a 
prosperous man ; and he was in the house of his master the 
Egyptian. And Joseph found grace in bis sight, and he 
served him : and he made him overseer over his house, and all 
that he had he put into his hand, and he knew not aught he 
had, save the bread which he did eat. And Joseph was a 
goodly person, and well favored. 

And it came to pass at tlic end of two full years, that 
Pharaoh dreamed. And it came to pass in the morning that 
his spirit was troubled; and he sent and called for all the 
magicians of Egypt, and all the wise men thereof: and 
Pharaoh fold them hia dream ; but there was none that could 
interpret them unto Pharaoh. Then Pharaoh sent and 
called Joseph. And Pharaoh said unto Joseph, I have 
dreamed a dream, and there is none that can interpret it : and 
I have heard said of thee, that thou canst understand a dream 
to interpret it. And Joseph answered Pharaoh, saying. It is 
not in me: Ood shall give Pharaoh an answer of peace. And 
Pharaoh said unto Joseph, In my droam, behold, I stood upon 


Cbe ftpeabet 237 

Qie bank of a river : And, behold, there c&me np out of the 
rirer eeven Idne, fatfleehed and well favored; and they fed 
in B meadow: And, behold, seven other kine came up after 
tiiem, poor and very ill favored and leanfleBhed, Buch as I 
never eav in all the land of Egypt for badness : And the lean 
and the ill favored kine did eat up the first seven fat kine : 
And I saw in my dream, and, behold, seven ears came up in 
one stalk, full and good : And, behold, seven ears, withered, 
thin, and blasted with the east wind, sprung np aiter them : 
And the thin ears devoured the seven good ears: and I told 
this unto the magicians; but there was none that could 
declare it to me. And Joseph said unto Pharaoh, The dream 
of Pharaoh iB one: God hath showed Pharaoh what he is 
abont to do. The seven good kine are seven years ; and the 
seven good ears are seven years ; the dream is one. And the 
seven thin and ill favored kine that came up after them are 
seven years ; and the seven empty ears blasted with the east 
wind shal] be seven years of famine. 

Behold, there come seven years of great plenty throughout 
all the land of Egypt : And ttiere shaU arise after them seven 
yean of famine. Now therefore let Pharaoh look out a man 
discreet and wise and let him take up the fifth part of the 
land of Egypt in the seven plenteous years. And that food 
shall be for store to the land against the seven years of famine. 
And the thing was good in the eyes of Pharaoh. And Pharaoh 
said unto Joseph, Forasmuch as Qod hath shewed thee all 
this, there is none so discreet and wise as thou art: Thou 
ehalt be over my house, and according unto thy word shall 
all my people be ruled : only in the throne will I be greater 
than thou. And Joseph was thirty years old when he stood 
before Pharaoh king of Eg}^t. And in the seven plenteous 
years the earth brought forth by handfitls. And he gathered 
sp all the food of the seven years, which were in the land of 
I^gypt, and laid up the food in the cities : And the seven years 
of plenteousnesB that was in the land of Egypt, were ended. 
And the seven years of dearth began to come, according as 
Joseph had said: and the dearth was in all lands; but in all 
the land of Egypt there was bread. And all countries came 
into Egypt to Joseph for to buy com : because that the fam- 
ine was BO sore in all lands. 

And Joseph's brethren went down to buy com in Egypt. 
And Joseph was the governor over the laud, and he it was 
that Kild to all the people of the land : and his brethren came. 



Ctie ^pealtet 

ajid bowed down themselves before him with their facee to 
the earth. And Joseph knew his brethren, but they Im^r 
not him. And when Joseph saw Benjamin with them, he 
said to the ruler of bis house. Bring tiieae men home, and 
slay, and make read; ; for these men shall dine with me at 
noon. And the man did as Joseph bade; and the man 
brought the men into Joseph's house. And he asked them 
of their welfare, and said, la your father well, the old man 
of whom ye spake? Is he yet aliTeP And they answered. 
Thy serrant our father is in good health, he is yet alive. 
And they bowed down their heads, and made obeisance. And 
be lifted up hJs eyes and saw Benjamin, his mother's son, and 
said, Is this your younger brother, of whom ye spake unto 
me ? And he said, Qod be gracious unto thee, my eon. And 
Joseph made haste; for his heart did yearn upon his broQier; 
and he sought where to weep ; and entered into his chamber, 
and wept there. And he washed his face, and went out, and 
refrained himself, and said, Set on bread. And they sat 
before him. And he took and sent meases unto them from, 
before him : hut Benjamin's mess was five times as much aa 
any of theirs. And they drank, and were merry with him. 

And be commanded the steward of his house, saying. Fill 
the men's sacks with food, as much as they can carry, and put 
every man's money in his sack's mouth. And put my cup, 
the silver cup, in the sack's mouth of the youngest, and his 
com money. And be did according to the word that Joseph 
had spoken. And when they were gone out of the city, and 
not yet far off, Joseph said unto his steward, Up, follow after 
the men ; and when thou dost overtake them, say unto them. 
Wherefore have ye rewarded evil for good? Is not this the 
cup in which my lord drinketh, and whereby indeed he divin- 
eth ? ye have done evil in so doing. And he overtook them, 
and he spake nnto tiiem these same words. And they said 
unto him. Wherefore saith my lord these words? God forbid 
that thy servants should do accordii^ to this thing : With 
whomsoever of thy eervanta it be found, both let him die, and 
we also will be my lord's bondmen. Then they speedily took 
down every man his sack to the ground, and opened every 
man his sack. And he searched, and began at the eldest, and 
left at the youngest; and the cup was found in Benjamin's 
sack. Then they rent their clothes, and laded every man his 
asB, and returned to the city. 

And Jodah and his brethren came to Joseph's house ; and 


they fell before him on the ground. And Joseph said unto 
them, What deed is this that ye have done ? wot ye not that 
evch a man as I can certainly divine? And Judah said. 
What shall we aay unto my lord ? What 'shall we speak ? or 
how shall we clear ourselves? behold, we are my lord's ser- 
vanta, both we, and he also with whom the cup is found. And 
he said, Qod forbid that I should do so : but the mftn in whose 
hand the cup is found, he shall be my aervant ; and as for you, 
get you up in peace onto your father. Then Judah came 
near unto him, and said, my lord, let thy servant, I pray 
thee, speak a word in my lord's ears, and let not thine anger 
bum against thy servant: for thou art even as Pharaoh. We 
have a father an old men, and a child of his old age, a little 
one; and his brother is dead, and he alone is left of his 
mother, and his father loveth him. lHow therefore when I 
come to thy servant my father, and the lad be not with us; 
seeing that hie life is bound up in the lad's life; It will come 
to pass when he aeeth that the lad is not with us, that he will 
die. Now therefore, I pray thee, let thy servant abide 
instead of the lad a bondman to my lord ; and let the lad go 
up with his brethren. 

Then Joseph could not refrain himself before all them that 
stood by him ; and he cried. Cause every man to go out from 
me. And there stood no man with him, while Joseph made 
himself known unto his brethren. And he wept aloud. And 
Joseph said unto his brethren, I am Joseph. And his 
brethren could not answer him ; for they were troubled at his 
presence. And Joseph said unto his brethren. Come near to 
me, I pray you. And they came near. And he said, I am 
Joseph your brother, wliom ye sold into Egypt. Now there- 
fore be not grieved nor angry with yourselves, that ye sold 
me hither: for Qod did send me before you to preserve life. 
For these two years hath the famine been in the land : and 
yet there are five years, in which there shall neither be ear- 
ing nor harvest. So now it was not you that sent me hither, 
but Qod. Haete ye, and go up to my father, and ye shall tell 
him of all my glory in Egypt, and of all that ye have seen; 
and ye shall haete uid bring down my father hither. And he 
fell upon hia bioUier Benjamin's neck and wept. 


Cbe Weaker 

Auld Daddy Darkness 


Anld Daddy Darkness creeps frae hia hole, 
Black as a blackamoor, bliii' as a mole: 
Stir the fire till it lowes, let the baimie sit, 
Atdd Daddy Darkness is no wantit yet. 

See him in the comers hidin' frae the licht. 
See him at the window gloomin' at the nicht; 
Turn up the gas licht, close the shutters a', 
An' Auld Daddy Darkness will flee far awa'. 

Awa' to hide the birdie within its cos; neet, 
Awa' to lap the wee fiooers on their mither's breast, 
Awa' to loosen Gaffer Toil frae hia daily ca'. 
For Auld Daddy Darkness is kindly to a'. 

He comes when we're weary to wean's frae oor waes, 
He cornea when the baimiea are getting aff their cla«e; 
To cover them aae cosy, an* bring bonnie dreams. 
So Auld Daddy Darkuees is better than he seems. 

Steek yer een, my wee tot, ye'll see Daddy then ; 
He'a in below the bed claea, to cuddle ye he's fam ; 
Noo nestle in his bosie, sleep and dream yer fill. 
Till Wee Davie Daylicht comes keekin' owre the hill. 


The Owl and the Pussy-Cat 


The Owl &Dd the PoBsy-Cat went to sea 

In a beatitif nl pea-green boat ; 
They took some honey, and plenty of mon^, 

Wrapped np in a Jive-ponnd note. 
The Owl looked np to the moon abor^ 

And sang to a small guitar, 
"O lovely Pussy ! Pussy, my love ! 

What a beautiful Pussy yon are, — 
You are. 

What a beautiful Pussy you are 1" 

Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl I 

How wonderful sweet you sing I 
let US be married, — too long we have tarried,— 

But what shall we do for a ring?" 
They sailed away for a year and a day 

To the land where the Bong tree grows, 
'And there in a wood, a piggy-wig stood. 

With a ring at the end ofhis noee, — 
His noee. 

With a ring at the end of his nose. 

"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one BhiUinp 

Your ring ?" Said the piggy, "I will." 
So they took it away, and were married next day 

By the turkey, who lives on the hill. 
They dined upon mince and slices of quince, 

Which they ate with a runcible spoon. 
And hand in hand on the edge of the sand 

liey danced by the light of the moon, — 
The moon, 

Tbej danced by Ibe light of the moos. 


The AngeFs Whisper 


A baby vas sleeping ; 

Its mother was weeping ; 
Par her husbaod was far on the wild raging sea; 

And the tempest was swelling 

Bound the fisherman's dwelling. 
And she cried, "Dermot, darling. Oh, come back to me I" 

Her beads while she numbered 

The baby still slumbered. 
And smiled in her face as she bended her knee. 

"Oh, blest be that warning. 

Thy eweet sleep adorning. 
For I know that the angels are whispering to thee. 

"And while they are keeping 

Bright watch o'er thy sleeping. 
Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me. 

And say thou wouldst rather 

They'd watch o'er thy father, 
For I know that the angels are whispering to thee." 

The dawn of the morning 

Saw Dermot returning. 
And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to eee; 

And closely caressing 

Her child with a blessing, 
Said, "I kner that the angels were wMflpering to thee." 


etie ^ealtec 
Going Into Breeches 


Joy to Philip 1 he this day 

Has his long coat cast away, 

And (the childish season gone) 

Put the manly breeches on. 

OfiScer on gay parade. 

Bed-coat in his first cockade. 

Bridegroom in his wedding-trim, 

Birthday bean surpassing him. 

Never id with conscious gait 

Stmt about in half the state 

Or the pride (yet free from sin) 

Of my little icavikin : 

Kever was there pride or bliss 

Half so rational as his. 

Sashes, frocks, to those that need 'em, 

Philip's limbs have got their freedom — 

He can run, or he can ride. 

And do twenty things beside, 

Which his petticoats forbade; 

Is he not a happy lad ? 

Now he's under other banners 

He must leave his former manners ; 

Bid adieu to female games 

And forget their very names ; 

Pnss-in-comers, hide-and-seek. 

Sports for girls and punies weak. 

Baste-the-bear he now may play at; 

Leap-frog, foot-ball sport away at ; 

Show his skill and strength at cricket, 

Mark his distance, pitch his wicket; 

Eun about in winter's snow 

Till his cheeks and fingers glow; 

Climb a tree or scale a wall 

Without any fear to fall. 

If he get hurt or bruise. 

To complain he must refuse. 

Though the anguieh and the smart 

Go unto his little heart; 


CDe ^eaftec 

He muBt hare hie courage ready, 
Keep hJB voice and visage steady; 
Brace his eyeballs stiff as drum. 
That the tear may never come ; 
And his grief must only speak 
From the color in his cheek. 
This and more he must endure, 
Hero he in miniature. 
This and more must dow be done. 
Now the breeches are put on. 

The Lost Doll 


I once had a sweet little doll, deats, 

The prettiest doll in the irorld ; 
Her cheeks were so red and white, dean, 

And her hair was so charmingly curled. 
But I lost my poor little doll, dears. 

As I played on the heath one day; 
'And I cried for her more than a week, dean,. 

But I never could find where she lay. 

I found my poor little doll, dears, 

As I played on the heath one day ; 
Folks say die is terribly changed, dears, 

For her paint is all washed away, 
And her arms trodden off by the cows, dean. 

And her hair not the least bit curled ; 
Yet for old aake's sake, she is still, dears. 

The prettiest doll io the world. 


Baby Com 

'A happy mother stalk of com 

Hdd close 8 baby ear, 
And whispered : "Cuddle up to me, 

111 keep yon warm, my dear, 
m give yon petticoats of green, 

With many a tuck and fold 
To let oat daily as you now ; 

For yon will soon be old." 
A fnnny little baby that, 

For though it had no eye. 
It had a hundred mouths ; 'twas well 

It did not want to cry. 
The mother put in each small mouth 

A hollow tiiread of Bilk, 
.Through which the sun and rain and air 

Provided baby's milk. 
.The petticoats were gathered close 

Where all the threadlets hung. 
'And still as summer days went on 

To mother-stalk it clang; 
And all the time it grew and grew-— 

Each kernel drank the milk 
By day, by night, in shade, in sun. 

From its own thread of silk. 
And each grew strong and full and round, 

And each was shining white ; 
The gores and seams were all let out. 

The green skirts fitted tight, 
The ear stood straight and large and tall. 

And when it saw the sun. 
Held up its emerald satin gown 

To say, "Tour work is done." 
"You're large enough," said Mother. Stalk, 

"And now there's no more room 
For you to grow." She tied the threads 

Into a soft, brown plume — 
It floated out upon the breeze 

To greet the dewy mom, 
And then the baby said : "Now I'm 

A full-grown car of com." 


Who Stole the Bird's Nest? 


*^o-wliitI to-Thitl to-wheal 
Will yoQ listen to me? 
Who Btole four eggs I laid, 
And the nice neet I made ?" 

*'Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo I 
Such a thing I'd never do. 
I gave yon a viep of ha;. 
But I didn't take your nest away. 
Not I," said the cow, "Moo-oo I 
Snch a thing I'd never do." 

"To- whit! to-whit! to-wheel 
Will you listen to me? 
Who stole four ^gs I laid. 
And the nice nest I made ?^ 

"Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-Iink! 
Now what do you think ? 
Who stole a nest away 
Prom the plum-tree, to-day ?" 

"Not J," said the dog, "Bow-wow ! 
I wouldn't be bo mean anyhow. 
I gave hairs the nest to make. 
But the nest I did not take. 
Not I," said the dog, "Bow-wow ! 
I'm not BO mean, anyhow." 

"To- whit! to-whit! to-wheel 
Will you listen to me? 
Who stole four eggs I laid. 
And the nice nest I made F" 

"Bob-o'-link I Bob-o'-]iukI 
Now what do you think ? 
Who stole a nest away 
From the plum-tree, to-day?" 


C&e ^eafcet 

"Coo-coo 1 Coo-coo ! Coo-coo I 
Let me speak a word, too. 
Who stole that pretty nest 
Prom little yeliow-breast?" 

"Not I," said the sheep; "Oh, no. 
I wouldn't treat a poor bird so. 
I gave wool the nest to line, 
Bnt the nest was none of mine. 
Baal Baa!" said the sheep. "Oh, n 
I wouldn't treat a poor bird bo." 

"To-whit ! to-whit ! to-whee ! 
Will yon listen to me? 
Wbo Btole four eggs I laid. 
And the nice nest I made ?" 

"Bob-o'-link I Bob-o'-link r 
Now what do yon think ? 
Who stole a nest away 
IVom the plnm-tree, to-day?" 

"Coo-coo ! Coo-coo ! Coo-coo I 
Let me speak a word, too. 
Who stole that pretty nest 
From little yellow-breast?" 

"Caw ! Caw !" cried the crow; 
"I should like to know 
What thief took away 
A bird's nest, to-day?" 

"Cluck 1 Cluck t" said the hen; 
"Don't ask me again. 
Why I haven't a chick 
Would do such a trick. 
We all gave her a feather. 
And she wove them togettier. 
I'd ecom to intrude 
On her and her brood. 
Cluck I Cluck !" said the hen, 
"Don't ask me again." 


"Chirr-a-whirr I Chirr-a-whirr I 
All the birds make a stir. 
Let ns find out his name. 
And all cry, 'For shame I* " 

"I would not rob a bird," 
Said little Maiy Oreen; 
"I think I never heard 
Of anything so mean." 

"It ifl very cmd, too," 
Said little Alice N^eal ; 
"I wonder if he knew 
How sad the bird would feel?" 

A little boy hong down his head. 
And went and hid behind the bed, 
(For he stole that pretty nest 
From poor little yellow-breast ; 
And he felt so full of shame 
He didn't like to tell bis name. 

* * 

Po* Little Lamb' 

(from "Lyricg of Lowly Life.") 

Bed-time's come fu' little boys, 

Po' little Iamb I 
Too tiahed out to mak* a noise, 

Fo' little lamb 1 
To' gwine to liave to-morrer eho' ? 
Yes, yo* tole me dat befo'. 
Doan^ yo' fool me, chile, no mo' — 

Po* little Iambi 

Yo' been bad de lib-long day — 

Po* little lamb I 
Throwin' stones and rnnnin' Vay — ■ 

Po* little Iambi 

•OinnlChUd,lM,bTDodd,II«daCo. ScprintedbrpemiMlM. 


Cbe 9peafcet 

My, bnt jo's nmnin' wile ; 
look jea' Uk biub po' t<fk chile. 
ICam gwine whip yo' aftei while — > 

Come hyeah, yo's mos* tiahed to iet— 

W little lamb I 
Flayed yo'se*! clear out of href— 

See dem ban's now, aich a sight, 
Woold yo* evah blieve de^B white I 
Stan' still, wile I wash 'em ri^t,— 

Po^ little lamb t 

Dea* cain't hoi' yo' head ap straight-^ 

Po' little lamb 1 
Hadn't oughter played so late— 

Po' little lamb I 
Hammy doano what she'd do, 
Ef aU de chillimfl all lak* yo*. 
iTo'r a caution now fu* true— 

Fo' little lamb I 

Lay yo* haid down in my lap — 

Fo' little lamb 1 
Thought ter have a right good slap— 

T</ been nmnin' roun' a heap ; 
Shet dem eyes an' don't yo' peep. 
Dah, now, dab, now, go to sleep — 



Cte ^taket 
Little Brown Baby* 

(From "Lgrica of Lowly Life") 

Little brown baby wif epalcliii' eyes, 

Come to yo' pappy bq set on bu knee. 
What yon been doin', anb — ^maldn' san* piee? 

Look at dat bib — you's ez dn'ty ez me. 
Look at dat mouf — dafs meTlasBee, I bet; 

Come hyeah, Maria, an' wipe off his ban's. 
Bees gwine to ketch you an' eat yoa ap 3rit, 

Bein' bo sticky an' sweet — goodness lan's I 

little brown baby wif spa'klin' (lyes, 

Who's pappy's darlin' an' who's pappy's chile ? 
Who is it all de day nevah once tries 

Fu' to be cross, er once loses dat smile? 
Whah did you git dem teef ? My, you's a scamp ! 

Whah did dst dimple come f om in yo' chin ? 
Pappy do' know yo' — I b'lievee you's a tramp ; 

Mammy> dis hyeah's some ol' straggler got in 1 

Let's th'ow him outen de do' in de san'. 

We do' want stragglers a-layin' 'roun' hyeah; 
Let's gin him 'way to de big buggah-man ; 

I know he's hidin' erroun' hyeah right neah. 
Bnggah-man, buggab-man, come in de do'. 

Hyeah's a bad Doy you kin have fu' to eat. 
Uammy an' pappy do' want him no mo'. 

SwaUer him down f om his haid to his feet ! 

Dah, now, I fought dat you'd hug me up close. 

Go back, ol' buggah, you shan't have dis boy. 
He ain't no tramp, nor no straggler, of co'se; 

He's pappy's pa'dner, an' playmate, an' joy. 
Come to you' pallet now — go to yo' res' ; 

Wisht you could alius know ease an' cleah skies ; 
Wisht yon could stay jes' a chile on my breas' — 

Little brown baby wif spa'klin' eyes I 
•OqiTiWtt,in9,bTi>odd,llMd*Co. Seprinled br p«nnlnioD. 


Cbe ftpeahet ^^i 

An Incident of the French Camp 


lYoQ know we French stormed fiatlBbon : 

A mile or so away. 
On a little mound, Napoleon 

Stood on onr etorming-day ; 
With neck out-thmet, you fancy how, 

LegB wide, amu locked behind, 
Ab if to balwce the prone brow 

OppressiTe with its mind. 
Jnat ae perhapa he mused, "My pluu 

That floar, to earth may fall. 
Let once my army-leader Lannea 

Waver at yonder wall," — 
Ont 'twixt the battory smokea there flew 

A rider, bound on bound 
Fnll-galloping ; nor bridle drew 

TTntil he reached the mound. 
TbcD off there flung in smiling joy, 

And held himself erect 
By just his horse's mane, a boy : 

Ton hardly could suspect — 
(So tight he kept Ma lips compressed. 

Scarce any blood came through) 
.Ton looked twice ere you saw lus breaat 

Was all but shot in two. 


*TTel]," cried he, "Emperor, by Qod*s grace 

We'Te got you Batislwn t 
The Marshall's in the market-place. 

And youll be there anon 
To Bee your flag-bird flap his vane 

Where I, to heart's desire, 
Perched him I" The chiefs eye flashed ; his plana 

Soared up again like fire. 


Cbe %pcafcet 

The chiefs eye Bashed ; but pre8eiLtl7 

Softened itself, as sheathes 
A film the mother-eagle's eye 

When her bruised eaglet breathes. 
'Too're wonnded 1" "Nay," the soldier's pridt 

Touched to the quick, he said. 
"I'm killed, Sire I** And his chief beside, 

Smiling, the boy fell dead. 

Lullaby of an In&mt Chief 


Oh, hush thee, my bahie, thy sire was a knight, 
Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright ; 
The woods and the glens from the tower which we see, 
They all are belonging, dear babie, to thee. 

Oh, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows. 
It calls but the warders that guard thy repose ; 
Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red, 
Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed. 

Oh, hash thee, my babie, the time will soon come. 
When thy sleep shall be broken by tnunpet and drum ; 
Then hush thee, my duling, take rest while yon may. 
For strife comea with manhood, and waking with day. 


Old Ironsides 


[Thu was the first important po«m which Or. Holmes 
viote. The day after the public ODnoTuicemeDt of the Sec- 
jetaiy of the Navy to dismantle the oiA frigate "CJonetita- 
tion" tbeee ttirting lines appeared in the Boston DaHy Ad- 
vetHatr. The verses were everywhere copied and quoted, 
with the happy resolt that the order was changed, and to-day 
the old hoik is to be seen in the Charlestown (Mass.) Navy 

Ay, te&T her tattered ensign down I 

Long has it waved on Ugh, 
And many an eye has danced to see 

That banner in the sky ; 
Beneath it nmg the battle shout, 

And bnrst the cannon's roar; — 
The meteor of the ocean air 

Shall sweep the clouds no more. 

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood> 

Where knelt the vanquished foe, 
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood. 

And waves were white below. 
No more shall feel the victor's tread. 

Or know the conquered knee ; 
The harpies of the shore shall pluck 

The eagle of the sea I 

Oh, better that her shattered hoik 

Should sink beneath the wave ; 
Her tiiunders shook the migh^ deep. 

And there should be her grave; 
Nail to the mast her holy flag, 

Set every threadbare sail. 
And give her to the god of stomu. 

The lightning and the gale I 


354 ci)c ^eaitet 

Concord Hymn 


[CriticB gmLerally cite this poem as one of the best which 
Emereon has written. The hymn was sang at the dedication 
of the battle monoment at Concord io 1836. It was fitting 
that Emerson, the most distinguished citizen of the village, 
and one of ibe most distinguished men of the nation, should 
write the dedicatory hymn. His grandfather at the eeraith 
remove had organized the twelfth church in the colony and 
founded the village of Concord in 1635. Here the pulpit in 
each generation had been filled by deecendants of the devont 
Cambridge graduate who founded the town. Here William 
Emerson, grand&ther of the poet, had built the Old Manse, 
which is commemorated by Hawthorne in his "Uosses frmn 
OD Old Uanse," and in which the patriotic minister was 
detained by his parifibioners while the memorable conflict 
between the BritiBh soldiers and the "embattled farmers" 
was fonght at the bridge, within shouting distance of the 
"Old Manse."] 

By the rude bridge that arched the flood. 
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, 

Here once Uie embattled farmers stood. 
And fired the shot heard round the world. 

The foe long since in silence slept ; 

Alike the conqneror silent sleeps ; 
And Time the ruined bridge has swept 

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. 

On the green bank, by this soft stream, 

We set to-dsy a votive stone ; 
That memory may her dead redeem. 

When, like our sires, our eons are gone. 

Spirit, that made those heroes dare 
To die, and leave their children free. 

Bid Time and Nature gently spare 
The shaft we raise to them and thee. 


C|)e Weaker ^^ 

His College Examination* 

(Prom the Autobiography of Booker T. Washington.)] 

F%BOH the time that I can remember having aaj 
I Noughts about anything, I recall that I bjid an 
I intenae longing to learn to read. I detennined, 
1 when quite a small child, that, if I accomplished 
I nothing else in life, I would in Bome way get 

f enough education to enable me to read common 

books and neirspapera. Soon after we were free and settled 
in our new cabin in West Viiginia, I induced mj mother to 
get hold of a book for me. How or where she got it I do not 
know, but in some way she procured an old copy of Webster's 
*%lue-back" spelling-book, which contained the alphabet. 
I began at once to devour this book, and I think that it was 
the first one I ever had in my hands. I had learned from 
Bom^>ody that the way to b^gin to read was to learn the 
alphabet so I tried in all the ways I could think of to learn 
it, — all, of course, without a teacher, for I could find no one 
to teach me. At that time there was not a single member of 
my race anywhere near us who could read, and I was too 
timid to approach any of the white people. In some way, 
within a few weeks, I mastered the greater portion of the 

In the midst of my struggles and longing for an education, 
a young colored boy who had learned to read in the State of 
Ohio came to Maiden. How I used to envy this man ! He 
seemed to me to he the one young man in all the world who 
ought to be satisfied with his attainments. The opening of 
a school for n^ro children in the Kanawha Valley brought 
to me one of the keenest disappointments that I ever experi- 
enced. I had been working in a salt-furnace for several 
months, and my atopfatber had discovered that I had a finan- 
cial value, and so, when the school opened, he decided that he 
could not spare me from my work. My mother sympathized 
with me in my disappointment, and sought to comfort me in 
all the ways she could, and to help me find a way to leara. 

* O0|>rrVit, IMO, br BookM T. 


256 ci)e ^eakec 

After a while I succeeded in making arrangements with the 
teacher to give me some leesons at night, after the d^/s work 
was done. These night lessons were so welcome that I think 
I learned more at night than the other children did during 
the day. But my boyish heart was still set upon going to 
the day-school, and I let no opportunity slip to push my case. 
Finally I won, and was permitted to go to the school in the 
day for a few months, with the understanding that I was to 
rise early in the morning and work in the furnace until nine 
o'clock, and return immediately after school closed in the 
afternoon for at least two more hours of work. 

When I found myself at the schoolhouse for the first time, 
I also found myself confronted with difficulties. In the first 
place, I found that all the other children wore hats or caps 
on their heads, and I had neither hat nor cap. In fact, I do 
not remember that up to the time of going to school, I had 
ever worn any kind of covering upon my h^, nor do I recall 
that either I or anybody else had even thought anything 
about the need of covering for my bead. But, of course, 
when I saw how all the other boys were dressed, I began to 
feel quite UDComfortable. As osual, I put the case before 
my mother, and she explained to me that she had no money 
with which to buy a "store bat." But she got two pieces at 
"homespun" (jeans) and sewed them together, and I waa 
soon the proud possessor of my first cap. 

The lesson that my mother taught me in this has always 
remained with me, and I have tried as beat I could to teach it 
to others. I have always felt proud whenever I think of the 
incident, that my mother had strength of character enough 
not to he led into the temptation of seeming to be that which 
she was not — of trying to impress my schoolmates and others 
with the fact that she was able to buy me a "store hat" when 
she was not. I have always felt proud that she refused to go 
into debt for that which she did not have the money to pay 
for. Since that time I have owned many kinds of cape and 
hats, but never one of which I have felt so proud as of the 
cap made of the two pieces of cloth sewed together by my 

The time that I was permitted to attend school during the 
day was short, and my attendance was irregular. It was not 
long before I had to stop attending day-school altogether, and 
devote all my time again to work. After I had worked in 
the salt furnace for some time, work was secured for me in 


a coal mioe which was operated mainlj for the porpoBe of 
eecuriag fuel for the salt fnmace. 

One da;, while at work in the coal mine, I happened to 
overhear two miners talking about a great school for colored 
people somewhere in Virginia. This was the first time that 
I had ever heard anything about any kind of school or college 
that wae more pretentious than the little colored school in 
our town. 

In the darkness of the mine I noieeleesly crept as close as 
I could to the two men who were talking. I heard one tell 
tiie other that not only was tlie school established for the 
members of my race, but that opportunitiea were provided by 
which poor, but worthy studento could work out all or a part 
of the cost of board, and at the same time be taught some 
trade or industry. 

As they went on describing the school, it seemed to me that 
it must be the greatest place on earth, and not even heaven- 
presented more attractions to me at that time than did the- 
Hampton Kormal and Agricultural Institute in Virginia, 
about which these men were talking. I resolved at once to 
go to that school, although I had no idea where it was, or 
how many miles away, or how I was going to reach it; I re- 
membered only that I was on fire constantly with one ambi- 
tion, and that was to go to Hampton. This thought was with^ 
me day and night. 

About this time my mother applied at the houw of Gen- 
eral Lewis BnSner, owner of the salt furnace and coal mine,, 
for a vacant position. Few of the boys who had tried to- 
serve Mrs. Huffner had remained with her more than two or 
three weeks. They all left with the same ezcnse: she was too 
strict. I was hired at a salary of $3.00 per mon^, but hacf 
heard so much about Mrs. Burner's severity that I wa» 
almost afraid to see her, and trembled when I went into her 
presence. I had not lived with her many weeks, however, 
before I began to understand her. I soon began to learn 
that, first of all, she wanted everything kept clean about her; 
that she wanted things done promptly and s^tematically, 
and that at tlie bottom of everything she wanted absolute 
honesty and frankness. Nothing must be sloven or slipshod ; 
eveiy door, every fence, mnst be kept in repair. 

Even to this day I never see hits of paper scattered around 
a house or in the street that I do not want to pick them np. 
I never see a iilthy yard that I do not want to clean it, a pu- 


258 eHe Speabei 

ing off a fence that I do not want to pot it on, an onpsinted 
or unwhitewashed bouse that I do not want to paint or whife- 
waab it, or a button off one's clothes, or a grease-spot on them 
or on the floor, that I do not want to call attention to it. 
From fearing Mrs. Buffner I soonleamed to look upon her 
as one of tny best friends. She always encouraged and Byra- 
pathized with me in all my efforts to get an education. It 
was while living with her that I began to get together my 
first library. I aecnred a dry-goods box, knocked out one side 
of it, put some shelyee in it, and began putting into it every 
kind of book that I could get my hands upon, and called it 
my "library." 

Notwithstanding my saccesa at Mrs. Buffner's, I did not 
give up the idea of going to the Hampton Institute. In the 
fall of 1873 I determined to make an effort to get there, al- 
though, as I have stated, I had no definite idea of the direc- 
tion in which Hampton was, or of what it would cost to go 
there. I had only a cheap, small satcliel, that contained wlut 
few articles of clothing I could get. Trains ran only a por- 
tion of the way, and l£e remainder of the distance waa trav- 
eled by stage-coachefl. 

The distence from Maiden to Hampton ie about five han- 
dled miles. I had not been away from home many hours 
before it began to grow painfully evident that I did not have 
enough monej; to pay my fare to Hampton. However, by 
walking, begging rides both in wagons and in the cars, in 
60me way, after a number of days, I reached the city of Rich- 
mond, Va., about eighty-two miles from Hampton. When I 
reached there, tired, hungry, and dirty, it was late in the 
night. I had never been in a large city, and this rather 
added to my misery. When I reached Richmond I was com- 

fletely out of money. Knowing nothing else better to do, 
walked the streets until after midnight. At last I became 
80 exliausted that I could walk no longer. I was tired, I waa 
hungry, I was everything but discouraged. Just about the 
time when I reached extreme physical exhaustion, I came 
upon a portion of the street where the board sidewalk waa 
considerably elevated, I waited for a few minutes, till I waa 
sure that no paseers-by could see me, and then crept under 
the sidewalk, and lay for the night upon the ground, with my 
satchel of clothing for a pillow. Nearly all night I could 
hear the tramp of feet over my head. The next morning I 
found myself somevhat refreshed ; but I was extremely hun- 


CDe speaker ^^^ 

gry because it had been a long time aincc I bad Bufficient 
food. Ab booh as it became ligiit enough for me to see my 
BiuToundings, I noticed that I was near a large ship, and that 
thia ship seemed to be unloadiiig a cargo of pig iron. I went 
at once to the vessel and asked tlie captain to permit me to 
help unload the vessel in order to get money for food. The 
captain, a white man, who seemed to be kind-hearted, con- 
sented. I worked long enough to earn money for my break- 
fast, and it seems to me, as I remember it now, to have been 
about the beat breakfast that I have ever eaten. 

My work pleased the captain so well tiiat he told me if I 
desired I could continue working for a small amount per 
day. This I was very glad to do. I continued working on 
this vessel for a number of days. After buying food with 
the small wages I received, there was not much left to add to 
the amount I must get to pay my way to Hampton. In order 
to economize in every way possible so as to be sure to reach 
Hampton in a reasonable time, I continued to sleep under 
the same sidewalk that gave me shelter the first night I was 
in Bichmond. 

When I had saved what I considered enough money with 
which to reach Hampton, I thanked the captain of the vessel 
for his kindness, and started again. Without any unusual 
occnrrence, I reached Hampton with a surplua of exactly 
fifty cents with which to begin my education. To me it had 
been a long, eventful journey; but the tiret sight of the la^;e 
three-story brick school building seemed to have rewarded 
me for all that I had undergone in order to reach the place. 
It seemed to me to be the largest and most beautiful build- 
ing I had ever seen. . The sight of it seemed to give me new 
life. I felt that a new kind of existence had now begun — 
that life would now have a new meaning. 

As soon aa possible after reaching the grounds of the 
Hampton Institute, I presented myself before the head 
teacher for assignment to a class. Having been so long with- 
out proper food, a bath, and change of clothing, I did not, of 
course, make a very favorable impression upon her, and I 
could see at once that there were doubts in her mind about 
the wisdom of admitting me as a student. I felt that I could 
hardly blame her if she got the idea that I was a worthless 
loafer or tramp. For some time she did not refuse to admit 
me, neither did she decide in my favor, and I continued to 
linger about her, and to impress her in all the ways I could 



Ctie ^ealtet 

with my worthinese. In the meantime, I sair her admitting 
other students, and that added greatly to my discomfort, for 
I felt, deep down in my heart, thiat I could do as well as tbey, 
if 1 could only get a chance to show what was in me. 

After Bome boure had paseed, the head teacher said to me : 
"The adjoiniDg recitation-room needs sweeping. Take the 
broom and sweep it." 

It occurred to me at once that here was my chance. Nerer 
did I receive an order with more delight. I knew that I 
could sweep, for Mrs. Buffner had thoroughly taught me how 
to do that when I lived with her. 

I swept the recitation-room three times. Then I got a 
dusting-cloth, and I dusted it four times. All the woodworii 
around the walls, every bench, table and desk, I went ov«r 
four times with my dusting-cloth. Besides, every piece of 
furniture had been moved and every closet and comer in the 
room had been thoroughly cleansed. I had the feeling that 
in a large measure my future depended upon the impreaaion 
I made upon the teacher in the cleaning of that room. WheM 
I was through I reported to the head teacher. She was a 
"Yankee" woman who knew just where to look for dirt 
She went into the room and inspected the floor and closets; 
then she took her handkerchief and rubbed it on the wood- 
work ^>oat the walls, and over the table and benches. When 
she was unable to find one bit of dirt on the floor, or a 
particle of dust on any of the funiture, she quietly re- 
marked : "I guess you will do to enter this institution." 

I was one of the happiest souls on earth. The sweeping of 
that room was my college examination, and never did any 
youth pass an examinatioD for entrance into Harvard or Yale 
that gave him more genuine satisfaction. I have passed sev- 
eral examinations since then, but I have always felt that this 
was the beet one I ever passed. 

A Child's Grace 


Some bae meat and canna eat. 
And some wad eat that want it; 

But we hae meat and we can eat. 
And sae the Lord be thankit 


A Howdy Song 


[The Iftteet volume of TTncle Bemua stories ia in verae, 
"The Tar Babj and Other Bhymea of Uncle BemiiB," 
published by D. Appleton ft Co., New York, $2.00. All of 
these are excellent readings ; especially good are "Tar Baby," 
"How Br'er Tanypin Jjeamed to Fly," and "Br'er Babbit'a 
Oiglm Place." The following linee are from the divisioa of 
the rhyme which Mr. Harris calls "TranscriptioBS."] 

If 8 howdy, honey, when you lau^ 

An' howdy, when you cry. 
An' all day long it's howdy — 

I never shall aay good-bye ! 

I'm moTiBt'us peart myself, euh, 

An' hopin' de same fer you. 
An' when I ketch my hreff, soh, 

m ax yoo howdy-do t 

Ifs howdy, honey, when yon sleep. 

It's howdy, when yon cry ; 
Keep up, keep up de howdyin' ; 

Don't never say good-bye I 

I'm middlin* well myse'f, suh. 
Which de same I hope fer yon ; 

EI yonll le' me ketch my bieff, suh, 
I'll ax you howdy-do 1 

* * 


So nigh ia grandeur to our dust. 

So near is Qod to man ; 
When Duly whispers low "Thon must," 

The youth replies, "I can." 


2«2 cue ^cabet 

Bud's Fairy Tale* 

[Almost erery teacher is familiar witli the delightfal 
child-poems of Biley's in "Khymes from Cbildhood," but, 
strangely enough, few know the incomparable stories in "The 
Child World." la this volume are "Alex's Bear-Stoiy" and 
a half-dozen more of the best verses of child life which Rile; 
liae written. We call special attention to the "Bear-Story," 
"Uaymie's Story of Sed Biding Hood,*' and the following 
arrangement of "Bud's Fairy-Tale," which is reprinted by 
permission of the publishers, the Bobbs-Mernll Company, 
Indianapolis, "The Child-World," «1.25.] 

Some people thinks they ain't no Fairies now 

No more yet. But they is, I bet I 'Cause ef 

They wuzn't Fairies, nen I'd like to know 

Who'd wite 'bout Fairies in the books, an' toll 

Whai Fairies doce, an' how their picture looks, 

An' all an' ever'thing. W'y ef they don't 

Be Fairies any more, nen little boys 

TJ'd ist sleep when they go to steep an' won't 

Hare ist no dweams at all, — 'Cause Fairies — good 

Fairies — they're a-purpose to make dweams. 

But they is Fairies — an' I know they is. 

'Cause one time wunst, when it's all Summertime, 

An' don't faaf to be no fires in ihe stove 

£r fireplace to keep warm wiv — ner don't haf 

To wear old scratoliy fiannen shirto at all, 

An' ain't no freeze — ner cold — ner snow. — An' — an* 

Old skweeky twees got all the green leaves on 

An' ist keeps noddin', noddin' all the time, 

Like they 'uz lazy an' a-twyin' to go 

To sleep an' couldn't, 'cause the wmd won't quit 

A-blowin' in 'em, an' the birds won't stop 

A-singin', so's they kin. — But twees don't sleep, 

I guess. But little boys sleeps — an' dweams, tao.^ 

An' thaf 8 a sign they's Fairies. 

• Conrright, latS, by June* WUtcomb BiKr. 


So one time, 
"When I ben plsjin' "Store" wunet over in 
The shed of their old stable, an' Ed Howard 
He made me quit a-bein' pardners, 'cause 
I drinked the 'tend-like Bodj-water up 
An' et the Bhore-nufF crackers. — Wy, nen I 
dumbed over in our garden where the gwapea 
Wuz pnrt'-ni^ ripe : An' I wuz ist a-layin' 
There on th' old cwooked seat 'at Pa m^ed in 
Our arbor, — an' so I 'uz layin' there 
A-whittlin' beets wiv my new dog-knife, an' 
A-lookin' wite np through the twimbly leaves — 
An' wuzn't sleep at all, — An' — sir, — ^first thing 
You know, a little Fairy hopped out there. — 
A little-teenty Fairy — hope-may-die 1 
An' he look' down at me, he did — an' he 
Ain't bigger'n a yellerbird ; — an' he 
Say "Howdy-do ?*' he did — an' 1 could hear 
Him — ist as plain. 

Nen I say "Howdy-do?" 
An' he say, "I'm all hnnkey, Nimey ; how 
la your folks comin' on ?" 

An' nen I say, 
"My name ain't 'Nibsey,' neever — my name's Bnd.- 
An whaf B your name ?" I says to him. 

An' he 
let laugh an' say "Bud's awful funny name." 
An' he ist laid back on a big bunch o' gwapes 
An' laugh, an' laugh, he did — like somebody 
IJz tick-eel-nn his feet. 

An' nen I say-~ 
"Whaf B your name ?" nen I say, "afore you bust 
Yo'-Be*f a-laughin' Txiut my name?" I says. 
An' nen he dwy up laughm' — kind o' mad — 
An' say, "W'y, my name s 'Squidjicum,' " he says. 
An' nen I laugh an' say — "Oee I what a name 1" 
An' when I make fun of his name, like that, 
He ist git awful mad an' spunky, an' 
'Fore yon know, he gwabbed holt of a vine — 
A big long vine 'af s danglin' np there, an' 
He ist belt on wite tight to tha^ an' down 
He swung quick past my face, he did, an* ist 
(Kicked at me bard's he could. 


SM c^ ^eaket 

Bat I'm too quick 
Fer Mr. Saoidiiciun. I ut weached oat 
An' ketched him, in my hftnd — an' belt bim, too. 
An' Bqneeied him, iat tiiie little Tobine when 
They can't fly yet an' git flopped oat tbeii nest 
An' sen I tiun him all wotmd over, an' 
Look at him dos't, you know — wit« cloe't, — 'cauee et 
lie ia a Fairy, v'y, I want to aee 
The wings he'i got. But he's dweaaed op so fine 
'At I can't see no wings. An' all the time 
He's twyiu' to kick me yet : An' so I take 
F'esh holt an' squeeze agin — on' harder, too; 
An' I says, "Hold np, Mr. Sqaidjicom, — 
Yoa're kickin' the wrong man," I says ; an' nen 
I iat squeeze' him, purf -nigh my beet, I did — 
An' I heerd somepin' bust. An' nen he cwied 
An' Bays, "You better look out what yoa're dein'— 
Yon' bnaf my sfuderweb-auspenners, an' 
You' got my roseleaf-coat all cwinkled up 
So's I cant go to old Miss Hoodjicum's 
Tea-party, 's afternoon." 

An' nen I says — 
■"Tnio's 'old Miss Hoodjicum'?" I says. 

An' fae 
Says, "Ef yoa lenune loose, I'U tell you." 

I belt the little skeezics 'way fur out 
In one hand — so's he can't jump down t' th' groujid 
Wivout a-gittin' all stove up ; an' nen 
I says, "You're loose now. Go ahead an' tell 
'Bout the tea-party, where you're goin' at 
'.So awful fast," I says. 

An' nen he say,—* 
"No use to tell you Ijont it, 'cause you won't 
Believe it, less you go there your own ee'f 
An' see it wiv your own two eyes," he says. 
An' he says : "Ef you lemme sbore-nufl loose. 
An' promise 'at you'll keep wite still, an' won't 
Tetch nothin' 'at yon see — an' never tell 
Nobody in the world — an' lemme loose — 
W'y, nen 111 take you there !" 

But I says, "Yea, 
An' el I let you loose, youll run," I says. 


An' hfl saya, "Ko, I won't. I hope may die I" 
Nmi I says, "Cross your heart you won't" 
An' he 
Ist cross his heart ; an' nen I reach an' set 
The little feller on on a long riue — 
An' he 'uz bo tickled to git loose agin. 
He gwab' the vine wi? bofe his little hands 
An' ist take an' turn in, he did, an' skin 
'Bout forty-'levea cats, 

Nen when he git 
Through whlrlin* wound the vine, an' set on top 
Of it agin, w'y nen his "woBeleaf-coat" 
He bwag so much about, if s iBt all tored 
Up, an' ist hangin' strips an' raga — so he 
Look like his Fa'a a dwankard. An' bo ueu 
When he see what he's done — a-actin' up 
So smart, — ^he's awful mad, I guess; an' lot 
Pout out his lips an' twis' his little face 
Ist ugly as he kin, an' set an' tear 
His whole ooat off— an' sleeves an' all. An' nen 
He wad it all togevrer an' ist throw 
It at me ist as hard as he kin drive. 
An' when I weach to ketch him, an' 'uz goin' 
To give him 'nuvror squeezin', be ist flowed 
Gleui up on top the arbor. — 'Cause you know, 
They wuz wings on him — when he tored his coat 
Clean oft — they wuz wings under there. But they 
Wuz purty wobbly-like an' wouldn't work 
Hardly at all. 'Cattse purty soon, when I 
Throwed clods at him, an' sticks, an' got him shooed 
Down off 0* there, he came a-floppin' down 
An' lit k-bang on our old chicken-coop, 
An' ist laid there a-whimper'n' like a child. 
An' I tiptoed up wit« clort, an' I says, '^Vhat's 
The matter wiv ye, Squidjieum?" 

An' he 
Saya : "Dog-goue 1 When my wings gits stwaight agin. 
Where you an crumpled 'em," he says, "I bet 
I'll ist Sy clean away an' won't take you 
To old Miss Hoodjicmn's at all," he says. 
An' sen I ist weach out wite quick, I did, 
An' gwab the sassy little snipe agin — 
Nen tooked my topstwing an' tie down his wings 


Clie ^ealtec 

So's be can't fly, less'u I want him to. 
An' nen I says : "Now, Mr. Sqnidjicom, 
You better ist light ont," I Bays, "to old 
MisB Hoodjicum a, an' Bbow me how to git 
There, too," I Bays ; "er ef you don't," I sayB, 
"I'll climb ap wiv you on our bnggy-ahed 
An' push you oS," I says. 

An' nen he say 
All wight, bell show me there; an' tell me nen 
To set him down wite easy on bis feet. 
An' loosen up the stwing a little where 
It cut him under th' arms. An' nen be says, 
"Come on," be Bays; an' went a-limpin' long 
The garden-path — an' limpin' long an' long 
Tell — purty soon be come on long to wbere's 
A grea -big cabbage-leaf. An' he stoop down 
An' say, "Come on inunder here wiv me." 
So I stooped down an' crawl inunder there. 
Like he say. 

An' inunder there's a grea' 
Big clod, they ia~-A awful grea' big clod. 
Atf nen he aaye, "Roll this here clod away." 
Ail' 80 I roll' the dod away. An' nen 
It's all wet, where the dew'z inunder where 
The old clod wuz, — an' nen the Fairy he 
Git on the wet-place. Nen be saya to me, 
"Git on the wet-place, too." An' nen he aay, 
"Now hold yer breff an' shet yer eyes," he says, 
"Tell I say Squlnchy-winchy." Nen he say — 
SomepiD in Dutch, I guess. An' nen I felt 
Like we 'uz sinlrin' down — an' sinkin' down. — 
Tell purty soon the little Fairy weach 
An' pinch my nose an' yell at me an' say, 
"Squinchy-winchy 1 Look wherever you please." 
Nen when I looked — Ob ! they 'uz purtyest place 
Down there you ever saw in all the World. — 
They 'uz ist flowers an* woses — ^yes, an' twees 
Wiv blosBoms on an' big ripe apples bofe. 
An' butterflies, they wuz — an' hummin'-birds^ 
An' yelierbirds, an bluebirds — yes, an' red. — 
An' ever'wheres an' all awound 'uz vines 
Wiv ripe p'serve-pears on 'em. Yes, an' all 
An' ever'thing 'si's ever growin' in 


Ctie %peaUt 

A garden— or canned up — all ripe at wanst.— > 

It wuz ist like a garden— only it 

17z iat a little bit o' garden — 'boat big wonnd 

Ab ist OUT tffon'el-bed is. An' all wound 

An' wound the little garden's a gold fence — . 

An' little gold gate, too — an' ash-hopper 

'At'B all gold, to(^— an' ist full o' gold adies. 

An' wite in th' middle o' the garden wuz 

A little gold house, 'at's ist 1>out as big 

As ist a bird-cage is : An' in the house 

They 'uz whole-lots more Fairies there — 'canae I 

Picked up the little house, an* peeked in at 

The winders, an' I see 'em all m there 

Ist bnggin' round. An' Mr. Squidjicum 

He twy to make me quit, but I gwab him. 

An' poke him down the chimbly, too. — I did. 

An' y'ort to see him hop out 'mongst 'em there, — 

Ist like he 'uz the boes an' ist got back. 

"Hain't ye got on them-air dew-dumplin's yet?" 

He says. 

An' they says no. 

An' nen he says — 
"Better git at 'em," he says, "wite quick — 
'Cauae old Kiss Hoodjicum's a-comin'." 

They all set wound a little gold tub — an' 
All 'menced a-peelin' dewdrops, ist like they 
*Uz peaches. An', it looked so funny, I 
Ist laugh' out loud, an* dropped the little house,—* 
An' 't busted like a soap-bubble. An't skeered 
He so, I — I — I — I, — it skeered me so, — 
I — ist waked np. No, I ain't ben asleep 
An' dweam it all, like you think, — but if s shore 
Fer — certain fact an' cross my heart it is. 


2S8 ciK 9pealitr 

The Boy That Was Scaret 
o' Dyin" 


[This little story is ralnsble becanee of the oitportunitj it 
offers of presenting to childrea the eabject of death in the 
ri^t, the beautiful way.] 

IB there was a boy that was dreadful scaret o* 

lyin*. Some fci]a is that way, you know ; they 

in't never done it to know how it feels, and 

hey're scaret. And this boy was that way. 

le wa'n't very rugged, his health was sort o' 

lim, and mebbe that made him think abont 

sech thJngB more. T any rate, he was terrHite scaret •' 

dyin'. "Twas a long time ago, this was — the times whea 

posies and creators could talfc so'a folks could know what 

they was sayin'. 

And one day, as this boy, his name was Beuben — I for- 
got his other name — as Seuben was aettin' under a tree, an 
ellnm tree, cryin', he heerd a little, little bit of a voice — 
not squeaky, yon know, but small and thin and soft like — 
and he see 'twas a posy talkin'. 'Twas one o' them poaiee 
they call Benjamins, with three-cornered whitey blowths 
with a mite o' pink on 'em, and it talked in a kind o' pinky- 
white voice, and it says, "What you cryin' for, Renben?" 
And he says, "'Cause I'm scaret o' dyin'," says he; 'Tm 
dreadful scaret o* dyin'." Well, what do you think? That 
poBj jest laughed — the most cur'uB little pinky-white laugh 
'twas — and it says, the Benjamin aays: "Dyin'! Scaret o* 
dyin'? Why, I die myself every single year o' my life." 
"Die yourself !" says Benben. "You're foolin' ; you're alive 
this minute." '"Course I be," said the Benjamin; "but 
that's neither here nor there — I've died every year sence I 
ran remember." "Don't it hurt?" says the boy. "No, it 
don't," says the poey: "Ife real nice. You see, you get 

•The Kpsbllntton of thiitala Is klndlT permitted by HM*n. Churlea ScrflHMr'i 

P^ii, IM-IBT Fifth Arenne, H™ Turk Cltj. thBpnWlBhnreof "BW-T-Tdl Lib," the 
vciume from uhkh 11 is tolien. 


at «|i(aitn 269 

kind o' tired ft-hoMin' up yonr head straight an' lookin' 
peart and wide-airake, and tired o' the Bun shinin' bo hot, 
and the winda blowin' you to pieces, and the beee a-takin' 
your honey. So it's nice to feel eleepy and kind o' hang 
jouT bead down, and get sleepier and Bieepier, and then find 
yon're droppin' off. Then yon wake up jert 't the nicest 
time o' year, aad come up and look *round, and — why, I like 
to die, I do." But Bomeways that didn't help Beuben much 
as jou'd think. "I ain't a poey," he thinks to himeelf, "and 
mebbe 1 woulda't come up." 

Well, another time he was settin* on a stone in the lower 
paetnr', ciyin' again, and he heerd another cur'uB little 
voice. Twa'n't like the posy's voice, but 'twas a little, 
woolly, eoft, fuzzy voice, and he eee 'twas a caterpillar 
&-talkin' to him. And the caterpillar says, in his fuzzy lit- 
tle voice, he says, "What you cryin' for, Reuben?" And 
the boy, he Bays, "I'm powerful scaret o' dyin', thaf s why," 
he says. And the fuzzy caterpillar he laughed. "Dyin' I" 
he says. *Tm lottin' on dyin' myself. All my famly," he 
says, "die every once in awhile, and when they wake up 
tbey^re jest splendid — got wings, and fly about, and live on 
honey and things. Why, I wouldn't miss it for anything I" 
he says, 'Tm 'lottin' on it." But somehow that didn't 
chirk up Beuben much. "I ain't a caterpillar," he says, 
"and maybe I wouldn't wake up at all." 

Well, there was lots o' other things talked to that boy, 
and tried to help him — trees and posies and grass and 
crawlin' things, that was allers a-dyin and livin', and livin' 
and dyin'. Reuben thought it didn't help him any, but I 
guess it did a little mite, for he couldn't help thinkin' o' 
what they every one on 'em said. But he was scaret all the 

And one summer he begun to fail up faster and faster, 
and he got so tired he couldn't hardly hold his head up, 
but he was scaret all the same. And one day he was layin* 
on the bed, and lookin' out o' the east winder, and the sun 
kep' a-shinin' in his eyes till he ehet 'em up, and he fell fast 
asleep. He had a real good nap; and when he woke qp he 
went out to take a walk. 

And he begun to think o' what the posies and trees and 
creatures had said about dyin', and how they laughed at his 
bein' scaret at it, and he says to himself, "Why, someways 
I dont feel so scaret to-day, but I s'pose I be. And j^ 


270 cbe Weaker 

then what do yen thiok he done? Why, he met a Angel. 
He'd never seed one afore, but he knowed it right oS. And 
the Angel eays, "Ain't you happy, little boy ?" And Eeu- 
ben Bays, "Well, I would be, only I'm so dreadful scaret o* 
dyin'. It must be terrT)le cur'as," be says, "to be dead." 
And the Angel says, "Why, yon be dead." And he waa. 

What Does Little Birdie Say? , 


What does little birdie say. 
In her nest at peep of day? 

"Ijet me fly," says little birdi^ 
"Mother, let me fly away." 

Birdie, rest a little longer. 

Till the little wings are stronger. 

So she rests a little longer. 
Then she flies away. 

What does little baby say. 
In her bed at peep of day? 

Baby says, like little birdie, 
"Let me rise and fly away." 

Baby, sleep a littie longer, 
Till the little limbs are stronger; 

If she sleeps a little longer, 
Baby, too, shall fly away. 


Laetus Sorte Mea* 

(" Ha.ppT in Uj Lot ") 


«BONABD was a spoiled child. His f^ce and beauty 

LI and high spirits had beeu strong temptations to 
I his friends to indulge him In evei^ whim. From 
-A Mb soldier ancestors he had inherited an intense 
I love of all things military, and the ezhibitions at 
I the post near hw house had stimulated his ambi- 
tion to become a soldier. One field day he was standing on 
the Beat of the carriage cheering his favorite regiment, when 
the horses suddenly started forward. He was thrown from 
the carriage and miade a cripple for life. 

The child bad never learned to govern his imperions 
nature, and when his young limbs bounded no more, and his 
boyish hopes were cut off, he rebelled against any attempt at 
control, and furiously refused to obey. 

He had been irritable all day, and his troubled mother 
stood by the window looking down where the elm-trees made 
long shadows on the grass. Had she faUed to teach him the 
fortitude and patience under his pains that was not only his 
highest duty, but his best chance of happiness P The pride of 
her heart had been stirred by Leonard's love for soldiers, his 
brave ambitions, the high spirit and heroic instincts which he 
inherited from a long line of gallant men and noble women. 
Had her pride been a sham? Did she care only for the cour- 
age of the battle-field? Was she willing that her son should 
be a coward, because it was not the trumpet's sound that sum- 
moned hJTn to fortitude? She bad strung her heart to the 
thought that, like many a mother of her race, she might live 
to gird on his sword ; ^ould she fail to help him to carry his 


At this point a cry came from below the window, and, 
lookuig out, she saw Leonard, beside himself with passion, 

•Oofplfii, una, bj Umrj AlttnM. 


2V3 die ^eaket 

rainmi; blowB like hail with his crutch upon poor Jemimt, 
his Durae. She felt that her conscience had not roosed her 
an hour t«o soon. 

That erening Leonard had tea with his mother in her very 
own room; and his little black dog, the Sweep, bad tea there, 

And when the old elms looked bkek againet the primroae- 
colored eky, and it had been Leonard's bed-time for half an 
hour past, the three were together stUl. 

"I beg your pardon, Jemima. I am very sorry, and ni 
never do bo any more. I didn't want to beg your pardon be- 
fore, because I was naughty, and because you trod on my 
Sweep's foot. But I beg your pardon now, because I am good 
— at least I am better, and I am going to try to be good. 

"My Iamb ! my pretty ! You're always good — " 

"Don't tell stories, Jemima; and please don't contradict 
me, for it makes me cross ; and if I am cross I can't be good ; 
and if I am not good all to-morrow, I am not to be allowed to 
go downstairs after dinner. And there's a V. C. coming to 
dinner, and I do want to see bim mors than I wont anything 
else in all the world." 

When Leonard was wheeled into the drawing-room the next 
evening his mother went to meet him, and the V. C. followed 
her. He had been prepared to pity and be good-natured to a 
lame child who had a whim to see him ; but not for this vision 
of rare beauty, beautifully dressed, with crippled limbs lapped 
in Eastern embroideries, and whose wan face and wonderful 
eyes were lambent with eager and wistful intelligence. 

"How do you do, V. C. ? I am very glad to see you. I 
wanted to see you more than anything in the world. I hope 
you don't mind seeing me because I have been a coward, for 
I mean to be brave now ; and that is why I wanted to see yon 
BO much, because you are such a very'brave man. The reason 
I was a coward was partly with being bo cross when my back 
hurts, but particularly with hitting Jemima with my 
crutches, for no one but a coward strikes a woman. She trod 
on my dt^s toes. This is my dog. Please pat him ; he would 
like to be patted by a V. C. He is called the Sweep because 
he is black. You know what the motto of our house is, don't 
you ? See, it's there on Uncle Ruperf s picture — Laetua Sorie 
Mea — "Happy in My Lot." I wanted to grow np into a brave 
soldier, but I don't think, perhaps, that I ever can now; but 


mother eaye I cbb be a brsTe cripple, and that would make 
me happy in my lot. Please show me your Victoria Cross." 

"It's on my tunic, and that's in my quarters in camp. 
I'm 80 BOny." 

"80 am 1 I knew yon lived in camp. I like the camp, 
and oh ! — ihoee ladies are coming after us ! They want to 
take you sway. Mother I Mother, dear I Don't let them take 
him away. Yon did promise me, you know you did, that if 
I was good all to-day I should tidk to the V. G. I can't talk 
to him if I can't have him all to mjBelf. Do let us go into 
the library, and be all to ourselves. Ob, I hope I shan't be 
naughty ! I do feel so impatient ! Why doesn't James come 
and carry me out of my chair ?" 

"Let me carry yon, little friend." 

"But can you carry me ? Did you ever carry anybody tliat 
had been hurt?" 

"Yes ; several people — much big^r than you." 

"Men hurt like me, or wounded m battle ?" 

"Wounded in battle." 

"Should you think that if I am very good, and not cross 
about a lot of pain in my back and my head — really a good 
lot — that that would count up to be as brave as having one 
wound if I'd been a soldier? Do yout Oh, do answer me; 
don't stroke my bead I I get so impatient. You've been in 
battle— do you?" 

"I do ; I do. My little friend, that would count for lying 
oat all night on the field when the battle is over. Soldiers 
are not always fighting." 

"Did yon ever lie out for a night on a battle-field F Oh, 
dear I There's Jemima." 

*TBut yon are going to be good ?" 

"I know I am. And I'm going to do lessons again. I 
did 8 little French this morning — a story. Mother did most 
of it; but I know what the French officer called the poor old 
French soldier when he went to see him in a hospital." 


"Mon brave. That means 'ray brave fellow.' A nice 
name, wasn't it? Thank yon so much. You have put me in 
beautifully. Kiss me, please. Good-night, V. C. 

"Good-night, mon brave." 

Although but a little, weak, suffering child, Leonard lived 
kaig enough to do a great work in the world, for has it not 


274 zttt ^eabet 

been said that "he who cooquers himself is greater tfian ha 
that taketh a city" ? 

In the barrack master's hat the little hero lay djing. His 
mind had wandered during the night. He had believed him- 
self to be a soldier on active serrice, bearing the brunt of 
battle and the pain of wounds ; and he called again and again 
in noble raving to imaginary comrades to keep up heart and 
press forward. 

About four o'clock he sank into a ertupor, but at gun-firs 
he opened his eyes. The nine hundred men in the little bar- 
rack church were singing "The Son of God Goes Forth to 
War." It was the brave little soldier's last Sunday, and he 
had particularly asked that the men might sing hils favorite 
hynin, and that hia beloved Y. C. would stand outside the 
officers' door and sing so that he could hear the words. 

He stood there now upon the steps, bareheaded io the sun- 
shine, with his face lifted toward the barrack master's hut, 
and sang: — 

"TTho best can drink His cup of woe. 
Triumphant over pain, 
■ ..^ ^•^o patient bears His cross below, 

He follows in His train." 

On either side of Leonard's bed, like guardian angels, knelt 
his father and mother, and at his feet lay the Sweep. 

"There I There it is 1 Mother, dear, please go to the win- 
dow and see if V. C. is there, and wave your hand to him. 
Father, dear, lift me up a little, please. Ah, now I hear him I 
Good V. C. You know I am not impatient, mother, dear ; but 
I do hope, please Qod, I shan't die till I've heard them sing 
that verse once more 1" 

Clear and sweet above the voices behind him rose the voice 
of the V. C. still singing to his little friend : — 

"They climbed the steep ascent of Heaven, 
Through peril, toil, and pain" — 

The men sang on ; but the V. C. stopped, as if he had been 
shot. For a man's hand had come to the barrack master's 
window and polled the white blind down. 


cue ^eabn 
The Victor of Marengo 



APOLBON waa sitting iu his tent ; before him lay a 
map of Italy. He took four pins and stuck them 
up; meaaui-ed, moved the pins, and measured 
again. "Now," said he, "that is right; I will 
capture him there." 

"Who, sir ?" said an ofBcer. 

"Milas, the old fox of Austria. He will retire from Genoa, 
pass Turin, and fall back on Alesandria. I shall cross the 
Po, meet him on the plains of Laconia, and conquer him 
there," and the finger of the child of destiny pointed to 

Two months later the memorable campaign of 1800 began. 
The 20th of May saw Napoleon on the heights of St. Ber- 
nard. The 32d, Lannes, with the army of Genoa, held Pa- 
dua. So far all had been well with Napoleon. He had com- 
pelled the Austrians to take the position he desired ; reduced 
the army from one hundred and twenty thousand to for^ 
thousand men; despatched Murat to the right, and June 
14th moved forward to consummate his masterly plan. 

But God threatened to overthrow his scheme ! A little rain 
had fallen in the Alps, and the Po could not be crossed in 
time. The battle was begun. Milas, pushed to the wall, re- 
solved to cut his way out, and Napoleon reached the field to 
see Lannes beaten, Ghampeaux dead, Desaix still charging 
old Milas, with tus Austrian phalanx at Marengo, till the 
consular guard gave way, and the well-planned victory was a 
terrible defeat. Just as the day was lost, Desaix, the hoy 
General, sweeping across the field at the head of his cavalry, 
halted on the eminence where stood Napoleon. There was in 
the corps a drummer-boy, a gamin whom Desaix had picked 
up in the streets of Paris. He had followed the victorions 
eagle of France in the campaigns of Egypt and Germany. As 
the columns halted. Napoleon shonted to him : "Beat a re- 
treat I" 

The boy did not stir. 

"Gamin, beat a retreat !" 

The boy stopped, grasped the drumsticks, and said : "Sire. 
I do not know how to beat a retreat ; Desaix never taught me 
that; bat I can beat a charge, — oh, I can beat a charge that 


276 CDe «pealtet 

will make the dead fall into line. I beat that charge at th« 
PfTamids; I beat that charge at Mount Tabor; I beat it 
again at the bridge of Lodi. Kay I beat it here?" 

Napoleon turned to Desaix and eaid: "We are beaten; 
what shall we do?" 

"Do ? Beat them I It is only three o'clock, and there la 
time enough to win a victory yet. Up I the chai^ ! beat the 
old charge of Mount Tabor and Lodi I*' 

A moment later the corps, following the sword-gleam of 
Deeaii, and keeping step with the furious roll of the gamin'a 
drum, swept down on the host of Austriana. They drore the 
first line back on the eecond — both on the third, and there 
they died. Deeaix fell at the first volley, bat the line never 
faltered, and as the smoke cleared away the gamin was seen 
in front of his line marching right on, and still beating tiie 
furious charge. Over the dead and wounded, over breast- 
works and faUen foe, over cannon belching forth their fire of 
death, he led the way to victory, and the £fteen days in Italy 
were ended. To-day men point to Marengo in wonder. They 
admire the power and foresight that so skillfnlly huidled the 
battle, but Uiey foi^et that a general only thirty years of age 
made a victory of a defeat. They forget that a gamin of 
Paris pitt to Bbame "the diild of destiny." 

Good Morning 


The year's at the Spring, 
And da/s at the mom; 
Morning's at seven; 
The hill-side's dew-pearled ; 
The lark's on the wing; 
The snail's on the thorn ; 
God's in His heaven — 
All's right with the world. 


Cbe Speafcec :>" 

Miranda and Her Friend 

(Prom "The Eeart of the Ancieni Wood.") 


£Tlii6 story vas published in Lippincotfs Mageame, April, 
1900. It is one of the most charming out-of-door ertoriee ever 
written, and should be io ever; child's collection of books.] 

[B Ceaio lived with her five-year-old dangh- 
Miranda, in s settlement near the edge of the 
nt Canadian woods. People were ao unkind 
. unloving to her that she resolved to live her 
aloof from them. Gathering together her 
thlr poesesBionB, she went to a spacious clear- 

ing iu the heart of the wood, and, taking poseeseion of a de- 
serted cabin there, began to farm the clearing for a living 
for herself and cliild. From the very first day of her new 
life on the clearing Miranda had found it to her taste. For 
her the place was not solitary. Her wide eyee saw when her 
mother coold not see, and to her the forest edges — ^which she 
was not allowed to pass — were full of most satisfying play- 
mates just waiting for her to invite their confidence. One 
afternoon her mother was ill and fell into a daep sleep. 
Miranda had gone out to feed the hens. She did not go 
straight back to her mother. Instead she wandered off 
toward the edge of the dark tirwood, where it came down 
close behind the cabin. The broad light of the open field, 
now green with buckwheat, threw a living illumination far 
in among the cool arcades. 

Between the straight gray trunks Miranda*8 clear eyes saw 
something move. She liked it very much, indeed. It looked 
to her extremely like a cat, only larger than any cat she had 
seen at the settlement, taller on its legs, and with a queer, 
thick stump of a tail. In fact, it was a cat, the brown cat, 
or lesser lynz. Its coat was a red brown, finely mottled with 
a paler shade, and the expression on the moonlike round of 
its iace was both fierce and shy. But it was a cat, plainly 


enough, and Miranda's heart went out to it, as it sat up there 
in the shadows, watching her steadily with wide, pale eyee. 

"Oh, pretty pussy 1 pretty pussy I" called Miranda, 
Etretching out her hands to it cooxingly, and running into 
the wood. 

The brown cat waited unwinking until she was about ten 
pacee off, thai turned and darted deeper into the shadows. 
When it was all but out of sight it stopped, turned again, and 
eat up to watch the eager child. Miranda was now absorbed 
in the pursuit and sanguine of catching the beautiful pussy. 
This time she was suffered to come almost within grasping 
distance before the animal again wheeled with an angry p/u^ 
and darted away. Disappointed, but not discouraged, 
Miranda lollowed again ; and the little play was repeated, 
with slight variation, till her great eyes were full of blinding 
tears, and she was ready to drop with weariness. Then the 
malicious cat, tired of the game, and no longer carious, van- 
ished altogether, and Miranda sat down to cry. 

But she was not the child to make much fuss over a small 
disappointment. In a veiy few minutes she jumped up, 
dried her eyes with the backs of her tiny fists, and started, as 
she thought, straight for home. At first she ran, thinking 
her mother might be troubled hy her absence. Bu^ not com- 
ing to the open as she expected, she stopped, looked ahout her 
very carefully, and then walked forward with continual cir- 
cumspection. She walked on and on, till she knew she had 
gone far enough to reach home five times over. Her feet 
faltered, and then she stood quite still, helplessly. She knew 
that she was lost. All at once the ancient wood, the wood 
she had longed for, the wood whose darkness she hod never 
feared, became lonely, menacing, terrible. She hroke into 
loud wailing. The cries came to the ears of Kroof, a large, 
hlack bear who had often gone near to the clearing to watch 
the little girl in whom she was greatly interested. She 
started in the direction of the cry, but other ears had heard 
it, too. 

A tavniy form, many times larger than the perfidious 
brown cat, but not altogether unlike it in shape, crept stealth- 
ily towards the sound. Though his limbs looked heavy, his 
paws large, in comparison with his lank body and small, flat, 
cruel h«id, his movements, nevertheless, were noiseless as 
light At each low-stooping, sinuous step, his tail twitched 
nervondy. When lie caught sight of the crying child he 


stopped, and then crept np more etealthily than before, 
crouching bo low that his bell; almost touched the grouod, 
his neck stretched out in a line with hie tail. 

He made absolutely no sound, yet something in Miranda's 
senaitive brain beard him before he was quite within Bpring- 
ing distance. She stopped ber crying, glanced snddeiuy 
uound, and fised a darkly clear glance upon bis glaring 
green eyea. Poor little frightened and lonely child though she 
was, there waa yet sometbing subtly disturbing to the beast 
in that steady gaze of hers. It was the empty gloom, the 
state of being lost, which had made Miranda^s fear. Of an 
animal, however fierce, she had no instinctive terror, and 
now, though she knew that the cruel-eyed beast before her 
waa the panther, it was a sort of indignant curiosity that was 
uppermost in her mind. 

The beast shifted his eyes uneasily under her unwavering 
look. He experienced a moment's indecision as to whether or 
not it was well, after all, to meddle with this unterrified,. 
clear-gazing creature. Then an anger grew within him. He 
fixed his hypnotizing stare more resolutely, and la^ed his 
tail with angry jerks. He was working himself up to the 
final and fatol spring, while Miranda watched him. 

Just then a strange thing happened. Out from behind it 
boulder, whence she had been eying the situation, shambled 
the huge, black form of Kroof, She was at Miranda's side 
in an instant; and, rising upon her hindquarters, a towering, 
indomitable bulk, she squealed defiance to the panther. As: 
Boon as Miranda saw her "great big dog" (which she knew 
quite well, however, to be a bear), she seemed to realize bow 
frightened she had been of the panther, and she recognized 
that strong defence bad come. With convnlsive sobs, she 
sprang forward and bid her tear-stained little face in the 
bear's shaggy flank, clutching at the soft fur with both hands. 
To this impetuous embrace Kroof paid no attention, but eon- 
tinned to glower menacingly at the panther. 

As for the panther, be waa unaffectedly astouirhod. He 
lost his stealthy, crouching, concentrated attitude, and rose 
to his full height, lifted his head, dropped hie tail, and stared 
at the phenomenon. If this child was a protege of Kroof's, 
be wanted none of her, for it would be a day of famine, in- 
deed, when be would wish to force conclusions with the giant 
die-bear. He wheeled abont and walked oS indiflerently. 


moving with head erect and a caaual air. One would hardly 
have known him for the stealthy monster of ten minutes ago, 

When he was gone Kroof lay down on her side and gently 
coaxed Miranda against her body. Her heart went out to the 
child. And Uiruida showed herself most appreciative of 
Kroof B attentions, stroking her with light litUe hands, and 
murmuring to her much musical endearment, to which Erooi 
lent earnest ear. Then, laying her head on the fur of the 
bear, she suddenly went fast asle^, being wearied by her 
wanderings and her emotions. 

l^ate in the afternoon, towards miJlriTig timB, Ejratie 
aroused herself. She felt troubled at having been so long 
asleep. And where could Miranda be P She arose, tottering 
for a moment, but soon found herself steady; and then she 
realized that she had slept off a sickness. But Miranda was 
nowhere to be seen. 

"Miranda r she called. And then louder, — and yet 
louder, — and at last with a piercing vail of anguish, as it 
burst upon her that Kiraada was gone. The sunlit clearing, 
the gray cabin, the dark forest edges, all seemed to whirl and 
Bwim about her for an instant. It was only for an instant 
Then she snatched up ihe axe from the chopping-log, and 
with a sure instinct darted into that tongue of fir-woods just 
behind the house. 

All at once, over the mossy crest of a rock, she saw a si^t 
which brought her to a standstill. Her eyes and her month 
opened wide in sheer amazement. Then the terrible tension 
relaxed. A strong shudder passed through her, and she was 
her steadfast self again. A smile broke up the sober lines of 
her face. 

And this was what she saw. Through the hoary arcades of 
the fir-wood walked a huge black bear, with none other than 
Miranda trotting by its aide, and playfully stroking its rich 
£oat. The great animal would pause from lame to time, 
merely to nuzzle at the child with its snout, or lick her hand 
with its narrow red tongue, but the course it was making was 
straight for the cabin. Kjrstie stood motionless for some 
minutes watching the strange scene, then stepping out from 
her shelter, she luistened after them. So engroeeed were they 
with each other that she came up undiscovered to within 
twenty paces of them. Then she called out, — 

"Mirandt, where have you been?" 


Th» child stopped. Looked around, bat still clung to 
Eroof 8 far. 

"Oh, mother I" she cried, eager and breathlesB, and trying 
to tell everything at once ; "I was all lost, — and I vraa joflt 
going to be eaten np, — and the dear, good big bear came and 
mgbtened the panther away; — and we were juet going 
home ; — and do come and speak to the dear, lorel;, big bear I 
Oh, don't let it go away, don't let it !" 

But on thia point Kjoof had her own views. It was 
Miranda she had adopted, not Kirstie, and she felt a kind of 
jealousy of Miranda's mother. Even while Miranda was 
speaking, the bear swung aside and briakly shambled o£F, leav- 
ing the child half in tears. 

It waa a thrilling Btory which Miranda had to tell bei 
mother that evening. It made a profound impression on 
Eiratie's quick and tolerant mind ; ahe saw in Eroofs affec- 
tion only a strong shield for Miranda against the gravest 
perils of the wood. 

« * 

A Riddle 


(A Book.) 

Fea I strange contradiction ; I'm new and I'm old, 
I'm oft«n in tatters, and oft decked with gold. 
Though I never could read, yet lettered I'm found ; 
Though blind, I enlighten ; though loose, I am bound, 
"'m always in bla(^, and I'm always in white; 
'm grave and I'm gay, I am heavy and light — 
n form, too, I differ, — I'm thick and I'm thin, 
>e no fleeh and no bonea, yet I'm covered with skin ; 
ve more points than the compass, more stops than the flute ; 
sing wiUiout voice, without speaking confute, 
m Bngli^, I'm Qerman, I'm French, and I'm Dutch; 
Some love me too fondly, some slight me too much; 
I often die soon, thongh I aometimes live ages. 
And ae nunuiGh alive baa so many pages. 


C6e Speaket 
LitUe Nell 


iTTLB Nbll vas SD orphan child, left to the care 

Lof her grandfather, a dear old man, who obtained 
a scanty living from trading in old pictures and 
— -' curioB. 

The old man loved the little girl with a paa- 
sionate devotion. For her Bake he dreaded pov- 
erty and want so much that be began to gamble, in the cliild- 
ish hope tliat he might earn a vast sum of money. Of course 
he was an easy victim for the shrewd gamesters. At last he 
alaked everything he had in the world and lost it, and, in- 
stead of surrounding Nell with his tender care and the ad- 
vantages of luxury, the old man, shattered in mind and body, 
became as a little child. Henceforth Nell was to be his guide 
and leader. She had only a child's knowledge of the world, 
but she felt that her' grandfather was in great danger, and 
she resolved to take him away from all this troubled life to 
the pleasant country, to walk barefoot through the world, if 
need be, rather than linger where they could no longer be 

For many months they wandered about the country, meet- 
ing with strange adventures that were alarming to tiie deli- 
cate child, falling into the hands of unprincipled people, suf- 
fering hunger and thirst, having no shelter, and yet they were 
happy because they were together and because the grand- 
father was free from this passion that had changed him so 

At last they met a friend in Mrs. Jarley, who was traveling 
about the country exhibiting a collection of wax-works. She 
gave them both employment, and here they rested from their 
long wanderings and once more found a home. Nell's sunny 
disposition and gentle patience won many friends for them, 
and they were happier than they had been for many months. 
One evening, when Xell and her grandfather went to walk, 
a deafening thunderstorm drove them to seek refuge in a 
roadside tavern, where some evil-looking men were playing 
cards. At sight of the silver money piled upon the table, all 
the old man's passion for gambling returned, and, in spite of 
Nell's earnest entreaties, he took the purse which contained 
all tlic'r enrnings, and when the play came to an end the 
little purse was exhausted. 


It was too lata to return to Mrs. Jarley's. For a moment 
Nell was troubled, then remembered a piece of gold that she 
had Beved into her dress against such an emergency. As they 
would leave the house very early in the morning, the child 
was anxious to pay for their entertainment before they re- 
tired to bed. FoUowing the landlord vhen he vent out of the 
room, she took the money secretly from its place of conceal- 
ment, but her grandfather beard the clinking of the change, 
and his face at once became flushed and eager, and his breath 
came short and thick. 

Although Nell felt a vague sense of uneasiness, a broken, 
fitful sleep gradually stole upon her — and then — ^what! A 
figure in the room I A figure was there, and it crouched and 
shrunk along, stealing round the bed. She had no voice to 
cry for help, no power to move, but lay still watching it. On 
it came — on, silently and stealthily, to the bed's bead. At 
length it busied its bands in something, and she beard the 
cbmk of money. 

Then it dropped upon its hands and knees and crawled 
away. The first impulse of the child was to fly from the ter- 
ror of being by herself. With no consciousness of having 
moved, she gained the door. The figure crept along the pas- 
sage until it came to her grandfather's door. The idea 
fiashed suddenly upon her — what if it entered there, and had 
a design upon the old man's life I She turned faint and sick. 
It went in. Not knowing what she meant to do, but meaning 
to preserve him or be killed herself, she staggered forward 
and looked in. 

What sight was that which met her view 1 At a table sat 
the old man himself, the only living creature there ; his white 
face pinched and sharpened by the greediness which made 
his eyes unnaturally bright — counting the money of which 
his hands had robbed her. 

After this incident at the public-house, poor little Nell 
knew no peace. She realized how broken and irreeponBible. 
her dear grandfather had become, and her one thought now 
was to get him away — to save him from disgrace and crime ; 
and once more they were wanderers through the world. 

For weeks they walked, travel-stained and weary, begging 
from door to door. The agony she had been enduring for the 
past weeks told upon her strength. Her shoes were worn 
quite through, and her little feet were swollen so that every 
Bt«p caused her pain. She walked just a little behind her 
grandfather that he might not see how she limped. 


X84 CDe Weaker 

They were dragging themflelvea along through the last 
street of a little viUagc, and the child felt that the time was 
cloee at hand when her enfeebled powers would bear no more, 
lliere appeared before them, at this juncture, a traveler on 
foot, who read from a book which he held in his hand. Ani- 
mated with a ray of hope, the child shot on before her grand- 
father, and began in a few faint words to implore the strang- 
er's help. He turned hia head. The child clapped her baa^ 
together, ottered a wild shriek, and fell eenselesa at his feet. 
It was a poor echool-niaster at whose house they had stopped 
in the first days of their joumejring. 

Scarcely leae moved and Burprieed by the sight of the child 
than she had been on recognizing him, he stood for a mo- 
ment, silent and confounded by thia unexpected apparition, 
but quickly recovering his self-posseeeion, he endeavored to 
restore her, while her grandfather, standing idly by, wrung 
his hands and implored her with many endearing expressions 
to speak to him, were it only a word. 

"She is quite exhausted," said the Bchoolmaster, glancing 
upward into his face. "You have taxed her powers too far, 

"She is perishing of want," rojoined the old man. "I 
never thought how weak and ill she was till now." 

Casting a look upon him, half-reproachful, half-compas- 
sionate, IJie school-master took the child in his arms, and bore 
her away to his home at his utmost speed. Opening her eyes 
at last from a very quiet sleep, Nell begged that her grand- 
father would kiss her once again. That done, she tnmed to 
him with a lovely smile upon her face — such, they said, aa 
they had never seen, and never could foreet — and clung with 
both her arms about hia neck. They did not know that she 
was dead at first There, upon her bed, she lay at rest. The 
solemn Etillness was no marvel now. She was dead. No sleep 
so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair to 
look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of 
God, waiting for the breath of life; not one who had Hved 
and suffered death. 

They had dressed her couch here and there with some 
winter berries and green leaves. "When I die, put near me 
something that has loved the light and had the sky above it 
alwam" These wero her woras. She was dead. Bear, 
geaue, patient, noble Nell was dead. 


etc Spcnltct S8S 

Parsifel the Pure 

(From "Stories from Wagner.") 


[Tbe book from which this stor? is taken ie pabliehed by 

^omas Y. Crowell & Co. All the tales will be found to be 

delightful eupplementaiy reading and eepeciaJly adapted to 

the home Btory-hoor.] 

Y'u remember that in the Bible account of the Last 

^^T Supper, Chriet took a cup and blessed the wine 

2 in it and gave it to His disciplu to drink. A 

legend says that Joseph of Arimathea obtained 

the blessed cup of the sacrament, and that at the 

crucifixion he caught in it a few drops of blood 

from Christ's bleeding side. Henceforth the cup [ 
the miracolous power of healing all wounds and sickaess. It 
brought perfect peace io its possessor ; and the mere sight of 
it waa e^«emed the greatest privilege on earth. But it was 
rarely seen of men. Spirited away by divine power, the 
Holy Grail — as it was cdled — was shown only on rare occa- 
sions, and to the noblest and most eelf-sacriGcing among its 
seekers. And so its quest came to be the highest task a man 
could set himself, for it meant the conquering of his own 
baser nature first of all, and the putting aside of every selfish 
interest. A brave knight, Titurel by name, decided to devote 
his whole life to seeking the sacred cup. With a small body 
at chosen knights, he set forth, and they prayed unceasingly 
and aided every one who crossed their path. At last Qod 
rewarded them by a sight of the Holy Qrail, and they built a 
beautiful temple, and vowed eternal service to their sacred 
charge. For many years they kept their vows with zealous 
faift. Titurel, their head, became an old man, and Amfortas, 
his son, was appointed chief guardian of the Grail in his 
etead. Meanwhile, as you may suppose, many other knights 
were desirous of being admitted into the temple; but none 
save those who led pure and sincere lives were ever accepted. 
Among those who were rejected because they were unworthy 
was a powerful magician named Klingsor. When he failed to 
win entrance in the usual way, he tried to bribe the keepers 
of the gates, and to make use of other base methods, but with- 


286 cDe Speaker 

out Bticcees. In his rage Klingsor swore Tengeonce, and 
devoted all hia wicked arts to overthrowing the Temple o£ ihe 
Grail. He made a beautiful garden on the other aide of the 
mountain, which be filled with flowers, fruits, mUBic and 
dancing girls. B; this means be deluded many knights who 
had come from afar earnestly seeking the Holy GraiL so that 
almost at the goal they forgot their quest and tarried idly 
in the gardens. 

Hearing of Klingaor's wicked arts, Amfortas was filled 
with righteous anger. He determined to go forth and strike 
down the magician with his sacred Spear, which was hia high 
badge of office. This Spear was second only to the Grail itsdf 
in sanctity. It was the same that bad pierced the Saviour's 
side while He was on the cross. It gave to its bearer the 
power of overcoming all his enemies, so long as he was true to 
the faith. Amfortas, though zealous, fell into temptation. 
The wicked Klingsor obtained possession of the Spear, and 
with it he woanded Amfortas in the side. In shame and sor- 
row, Amfortas returned to do penance and to confess hia 
fault, but the wound in his side never healed. It gave him 
daily torment, and the sight of the Grail, which had onco 
brought healing, seemed only to increase the pain. At length, 
one day, an added radiance glowed about the Grail, aod he 
heard a voice saying: 

'■By pity enlightened, 
My guileless one. — 
Wait thou for him 
Till my will is done !" 

Amfortas could not understand these words, but somehow 
his heart was lightened, and he thanked God that one day, 
be it near or far, he should And relief. 

One day, as the aged keeper of the gate was sitting, as was 
his wont, with his face toward the little lake that nestled in 
the valley, his eye was attracted by a wild swan, which soared 
peacefully above the lake. Suddenly it turned sidewise with 
a wild flutter of pinions, and began to fall toward the water. 
The keeper saw that it was wounded by an arrow, and he has- 
tened down to the lake to see who had done the deed; for it 
was forbidden to harm any creature, great or email, within 
the sight of the temple. Just as he reached the Imnk the 
swan fell at bis feet and expired, while at the same moment 
a youth ran up to claim hia pri;ie. He was clothed in motley 
animal skins, but he was strong and wo'l knit, and with that 


fnmk look about the eye wliich denotes both fearleBsness and 
innocence. The old man reproached him bitterly, and the 
youth stood with downcafit eyes and troubled face. "Indeed, 
I never thought evil." And, seized by a sudden impulse, be 
broke bis bow across his knee and flung his arrows away. 

They cast the dead swan into the lake and went together 
up the hill to the temple. Service of the sacrament was just 
being begun in the temple as they entered its doors. Long 
did Amfortas pray in bis pain, for he felt he was unworthy 
to uncover the GraQ ; but all the knights and the aged Titurel 
urged him to do it, kneeling with solemn upturned faces, 
until at last Amfortas unveiled the Cup and poured wine 
therefrom so that all might partake. Then he fell to the 
floor with a shudder of pain. The old wound had broken 
open afresh. 

The boy, Parsifal, stood spellbound behind a pillar, and 
could make no meaning of what he saw. His heart was filled 
with a great pity for the suffering Amfortas. He resolved to 
set fortib at once to find the Spear that would heal the king. 

No sooner was Parsifal on his way in search of the Sacred 
Spear than Elingsor was on the alert. He summoned 
Lundty, a poor, sinful woman, over whom he had cast a 
spell, and bade her prepare the same kind of a trap for Parsi- 
fal as had lured the knights aside. 

When Parsifal drew near, walking over the crest of the 
hill, the palace of Klingsor suddenly sank into the earth and 
vanished, leaving in its stead a lovely flower garden. Pres- 
ently Parsifal stood still and listened, for he heard strains of 
entrancing music, and then girls' voices in chorus. Then he 
paused epellbound. The flowers themselves were singing to 
him I Ont of the cent«r of each blossom peeped the bright 
eyes and laughing face of a bewitching maiden. They began 
to weave in and out in a wonderful dance, and they sang s 
bewitching invitation to him to tarry. Parsifal shook bis 
head, "I like you all, and I would gladly listen to you sing, 
but I must away on my errand." 

He turned to go, when another voice, softer than the rest, 
called his name. A leafy bower opened wide, and in it sat a 
maiden fairer than ever heart could dream. It was the witch, 
Sundry, transformed by the power of the magician into this 
glorious vision. 

Pretending that she brought it to him from his mother, 
^ gave him a kiss, intending to enchant him ; but for once 


i^ Cfie Weaker 

it failed of its effect. Parsifal sprang np as if atung bj an 

"AmfortasI Amfortas! I kooir it now! The speai^ 
wound in your side I Ah, the angnish of it has oome upaa 
me aleol" 

"ThoQ art wrong," said the woman, softly. "1 faave 
haimed thee not. Only stay I" 

"Not another moment I Your garden is evil and briogs 
death to men's Bonis." 

He turned to go, but the witch called aloud to the magician. 
She knew her power was gone, and as she called, Parsifal saw 
B dark, dreadml figure before her that blocked the way. 

"Stayl" commanded Klingeor, waving the Sacred Spear 
aloft "Those who enf«r my garden cannot leave it so 
easily t" 

"Stand aside I" said Parsifal. "I fear ye not !" 

"Thou wilt fear me when thon dost feel the spear-point I 
'Tis the same that undid Amfortas." And he threw the 
weapon straight at Parsifal, with terrific force. But, mirade 
of miracles I It stopped of itself midway, and floated gently 
about Parsifal's head. Ee grasped it reverently and made the 
sign of the cross. As he did so there was a tremendona crash, 
fMlowed by an earthquake. The garden, its flowers and 
music and running streams were swiulowed up in an instant, 
with all its inmatcB. Parsifal alone remained on solid 
ground. He looked about him, but could see only a trackless 
forest, with dose spreading trees that shut out the blue sky. 
He did not know which way to turn or where stood the Tem- 
ple of the Qrail. He set forth faking God to guide liim, and 
the Sacred Spear to protect him. 'llius it was that Parsifal 
began his pilgrimage. Long and hard it was, yet he did not 
falter or complain. And always his hand was ready to help 
the poor or the suffering. Thus years passed and at last Par- 
sifal, for true and heroic service, was made a knight. Never 
was there a comelier. His face glowed with an inner light; 
his eye was the very mirror of truth ; and always he sought 
the deed that was most valorous and the duty that was most 
severe, hoping that hie steps might be directed again to the 
Temple of the Grail. 

At last his time of trial was over. God brought him to 
the temple, where he healed the wound of the euffisring Am- 
fortas, and was proclaimed the stainleee Guardian of the 


THE modem student seeks the shortest way to 
earn his bread and butter. He is impatient to 
be at something that will bring financial re- 
turns. Some of his companions quit school 
for business years ago, and but for parental 
persuasion he would have joined them. Since 
he must stay in school a while longer he is busily hunting 
those studies that will contribute immediately to some prac- 
tical end that will enable him to get on. He spurns Greek, 
BiwuImvI Latin, Philosophy, Ethics, Evidences of 
Battar Christianity, and the other subjects that con- 

Stodiu stituted a college curriculum of a generation 

or so past, and eagerly turns to German, Spanish, the latest 
sciences, and technical subjects of all kinds. No time is 
given to general culture, if the student can help it. Whether 
it is wise is not our purpose to discuss; certainly the ex- 
treme has been reached. Only last June, President Hadley, 
of Yale, declared in his address to the Alumni of that in- 
stitution that it would be better to abolish half the courses 
offered at Yale ; which half he did not say. Changes will 
come, though they can only be made gradually. 

In the meantime teachers of Public Speaking should not 
allow students to overlook the fact that this subject is both 
for general culture and for practical purposes. That it is 
practical the average student does not realize. He sees in 
it nothing but voice exercises and gestures, which will en- 
able one to "speak pieces" with a degree of skill — only 
something that gives one an accomplishment. He should 
Practical understand, however, that in Public Speak- 

Fttblie ing, or even in the more limited study of 

Spfialring Declamation, there is much which will con- 

tribute to his equipment for getting on in the world — for 
making a living, and compelling recognition from one's 

* • * 

The engineer who can present clearly, and in a pleasing 
manner, the plans which he hopes to have the executive 

:y Google 

290 Ctit i^oto; 

board adopt is much more likely to get the contract than a 
man with an equally good plan who lacks the training to 
present that plan. The clerk who has a cultivated voice 
will make his way faster than an equally good salesman 
who has a strident, irritating I'oice. One of the questions 
which teachers' agencies ask is, has the applicant a well- 
modulated voice? A trained voice is effective in securing 
discipline in the school room, or anywhere that authority 
is asserted. Men who are trained to speak 
well easily forge ahead of their fellows who 
in other things are as capable as they. The' 
intimate knowledge of literature which comes through' 
courses in Public Speaking gives a soul culture such as no 
other course in the school gives, and soul culture, after all. 
is the end of education. 

A husiness man relates that when he once aavertised for 
a secretary, there came to him a competent young woman, 
skilled in stenography and typewriting, and who seemed in 
every way satisfactory, but at the first word she spoke he 
felt tliat it was impossible to engage her. The voice was 

In every school attention should be given to voice cul- 
ture. It is a very practical subject. By it students learn to 
control themselves, and become welcome in any group of 
business, or society people where they have something to' 

Teachers of Public Speaking often make the subject un- 
attractive to those students who have regard for only prac- 
tical subjects. Queer voice effects, fantastic 
and impracticable, are dwelt upon with an in- 
sistance that repels all except those who wish 
to make public speaking a profession. The teacher is not 
entirely to blame for the present conditions of oratory, but 
he can do much to mend them. Above everything else he 
must insist that oratory is not a trick of speedi. It is 
something more than talking well. 
The secret of effective eloquence is conviction. 
In discussing oratory in America, Rev, William Rader, 
of San Francisco, recently wrote: 

"More than a quarter of a century ago the Hon. Daniel 
H. Dougherty, of Philadelphia, the silver-tongued orator, 
I ItT I said: 'The grand days of oratory are gone 
forever.' It would be difficult to name a 
'really great orator who has spoken in the United States 
Congress since Mr. Dougherty made that statement. 


Sle ^pealtet 291 

"There is no great speaker in the English Parhament. 
Winston Churchill is a good talker, but not long since he 
broke down utterly and was unable to proceed. 

"We are a nation of talkers; but parrots talk,.thoi^h 
they are not orators. The American pulpit has few elo- 
quent preachers. The life of a ci^ preacher is so busy 
these days that it is almost impossible for him to create 
pulpit masterpieces. In the rush of life this art is ne- 
glected. Violets do not grow on Martcet Street 

"America has produced great orators. Webster was prob- 
ably more eloquent than Demosthenes, and Beecher than 
OnrGfttKt Cicero. The war recovered the eloquent 
-V ^^ voice. Business hushes it. War always 

leaves fresh paintings, great orations, and 
majestic poems in its pathway. Art is bom out of stress 
and struggle. 

"If we look over our country, we search in vain for 
great orators. The South still has some good speakers. 
Here and there we find a preacher of the old school ; but 
there was but one Grady. Henry Watterson has caught 
the fire, and Booker Washington is a good talker, but 
never rises to the greatness of Fred Douglass. 

"New England was once prolific in eloquent men, but 
since the Winthrops have passed away there is little elo- 

SMice. There is no successor to Wendell Phillips and 
arles Sumner, The Rev. Dr. Storrs, of Brooklyn, N. 
Y., was the last of the great orators of the Sumner or 
Webster school, unless we except Dr. Frank Gunsaulus, of 
Chicago, who is the genius of the American pulpit and 
platform. Of the younger men he stands almost alone as 
the representative of the older school of popular speakers. 

"San Francisco had at least one real orator in Starr 
King. Whittier wrote of 'his lip of gold.' Starr King's 
printed words do not always indicate the greatness of the 
speaker, since eloquence cannot be put into type; but the 
young Unitarian, chaining California to the Union with 
links of verbal gold, measured up to George Herbert's de- 
finition of eloquence, which he defined as 'that which in- 
forms and inflames,' 

"It is a strange fact that college presidents, professors, 
and so-called men of learning are poor speakers. They are 
usually prosy, and speak with a poor delivery. They are 
not very inspirational, and do not catch fire. A college 
man doesn't often blaze. On the other hand, the ordinary 


293 z^t i&piaftnr 

'spellbinder' on the stump blazes too mucli. He bums like 
a bag of shavings, and often his ideas are shavings— taken 
from other men's speeches. 

"Oratory has given place to talking. The college men 
have crushed eloquence. The John the Baptists who live 
on locusts and wild honey, and who come from the wilder- 
ness, often speak with power, but the scholar puts his 
hands in his pockets, and talks in a low, confidential voice. 

"In public speech, power is of more value than polish. 
'How many errors did you find in this sermon of mine ?' 
asked Henry Ward Beecher of his stenogra- 
BmcImt >nd pher, 

l^ng^^^ " 'Just two hundred and sixteen.' 

" 'Young man,' said the great orator, 
'when the English language gets in my way it doesn't 
stand a chance.' 

"Orators are scarce, while good talkers are numerous. 
The men who move men and charm them, who bend their 
wills by the force of their words, as one bends a bow, are 
few. Colonel Ingersoll was a unique speaker. His words, 
regarded from a literary viewpoint, were musical, and his 
delivery was superb ; but he has left no successor. 

"Now and then one hears a good speech, but more often 
a poor one. Occasionally there is an exceptional lecture or 
address, but there are comparatively few of our public men 
who can really move an audience. Mr. Bryan is an orator, 
and one of his speeches made him a Presidential candidate. 

"I believe our schools and colleges should aim to culti- 
vate the gifts of public speech, in order that Mr. 
Dougherty's declaration may never become a fact." 

While we do not entirely agree with this gloomy view of 
the present conditions, there is certainly much in the article 
that must make us think. We never heard Fred Dougiass, 
but he could hardly have spoken with more eloquence or 
with greater conviction than does Booker T. Washington. 
Moreover, there are a number of men who should be 
added to Dr. Rader's brief list of orators — Bishop Fowler 
and Senator La Follette are certainly as affective as Henry 
Watterson. We are not concerued with the names, how- 
ever. The responsibility on every teacher and student is 
to make sure that emphasis is not laid on the tricks of 
public speaking, but upon the message. 


Cfie 3peafteic 29; 

Eulogy on Charles Sumner 

(An Extract.) 

T the opening of the session in the fall of 1872 
Mr, Sumner introduced two measures which, 
as he thought, should complete the record of 
his political life. One was his Civil Rights 
bill and the other a resolution providing that 
the names of the battles won over fellow-citi- 
zens in the war of the Rebellion should be removed from 
the regimental colors of the army and from the army reg- 
ister. This resolution called forth a new storm against 
him. It was denounced as an insult to the heroic soldiers 
of the Union and a degradation of their victories and well- 
earned laurels. It was condemned as an unpatriotic act. 

Charles Sumner insult the soldiers who had spilled their 
blood in a war for human rights! Charles Sumner de- 
grade victories and depreciate laurels won for the cause of 
universal freedom! How strange an imputation! 

Let the dead man have a hearing. This was his thought : 
No civilized nation, from the republics of antiquity down 
to our days ever thought it wise or patriotic to preserve 
in conspicuous and durable form the mementoes of vic- 
tories won over fellow-citizens in civil war. Why not? 

Because every citizen should feel himself with all others 
as the child of a common country, and not as a defeated 
foe. All civilized governments of our days have instinc- 
tively followed the same dictate of wisdom and patriotism. 
The Irishman, when fighting for old England at Waterloo, 
was not to behold on the red cross floating above him the 
name of the Boyne, The Scotch Highlander, when stand- 
ing in the trenches of Sebastopol, was not by the colors of 
his regiment to be reminded of Culloden. Should the son 
of South Carolina, when at some future day, defending the 
Republic against some foreign foe, be reminded by an in- 
scription on the colors floating over him, that under this 
flag the gun was fired that killed his father at Gettysbui^? 
Should this great and enlightened Republic, proud of 
standing in the front of human progress, be less wise, less 
lai^e-hearted than the ancients were two thousands years 


294 flT^e SSfptsXxv 

ago, and the kingly governments of Europe are to-day? 
l^t the battle-flags of the brave volunteers, which they 
brought home from the war with the glorious record of 
their victories, be preserved intact as a proud ornament of 
our state-houses and armories. But let the colors of the 
army under which the sons of all the States are to meet 
and mingle in common patriotism, speak of nothing but 
union, — not a union of conquerors and conquered, but a 
union which is the mother of all, equally tender to all, 
knowing of nothing but equality, peace and love among 
her children. 

Such were the sentiments which inspired that resolution. 
Such were the sentiments which called forth a storm of 
obloquy. Such were the sentiments for which the legisla- 
ture of Massachusetts passed a solemn resolution of cen- 
sure upon Charles Sumner, — Massachusetts, his own Mas- 
sachusetts, whom he loved so ardently with a filial love, — 
of whom he was so proud, who had honored him so much 
in days gone by, and whom he had so long and so faith- 
fully labored to serve and to honor! 

How thankful I am, how thankful every human soul in 
Massachusetts, how thankful every American must be, that 
he did not die then ! How thankful that he was spared to 
see the day when the heart of Massachusetts came back to 
him full of the old love and confidence, assuring him that 
he would again be her chosen son for her representative 
seat in the House of States : — ^when the lawgivers of the 
old Commonwealth, obeying an irresistible impulse of jus- 
tice, wiped away from the records of the legislature, and 
from the fair name of the State, that resolution of censure 
which had stung him so deeply. 

Now we have laid him into his grave, in the motherly 
soil of Massachusetts, which was so dear to him. He is at 
rest now, the stalwart, brave old champion, whose face and 
bearing were so austere, and whose heart was so full of 
tenderness ; who began his career with a pathetic plea for 
universal peace and charity, and whose whole life was an 
arduous, incessant, never-resting struggle, which left him 
all covered with scars. And we can do nothing for him 
but commemorate his lofty ideals of liberty, and equality, 
and justice, and reconciliation, and purity, and the earnest- 
ness and courage and touching fidelity with which he 
fought for them; so genuine in his sincerity, so single- 
minded in his zeal, so heroic in his devotion. 



Silt Siftttn 295 

How the Elephant Got His 


(The twelve stories which make up the "Just So 
Stories," published by Doubleday, Page & Co., New York, 
are all delightful reading for children. The book is il- 
lustrated by the author, with many full-page drawings 
that are as delightful as the stories tiiemselves. This cut- 
ting is a part of the story, "The Elephant's Child." It is 
reprinted by special permission of the author and the 

N the High and Far-Off Times, the Elephant, 
O Best Beloved, had no trunk. He had only a 
blackish, bulgy nose, as big as a boot, that he 
. could wriggle about from side to side ; but he 
'couldn't pick up things with it But there was 
one Elephant— a new Elephant — an Ele- 
phant's Child — who was full of 'satiable curtiosity, and 
that means he asked ever so many questions. And, he 
lived in Africa, and he filled all Africa with his 'satiable 
curtiosities. He asked his tall aunt the Ostrich, why her 
tail feathers grew just so, and his tall aunt the Ostrich 
spanked him with her hard, hard claw. He asked his tall 
uncle, the Giraffe, what made his skin spotty, and his tall 
uncle, the Giraffe, spanked him with his hard, hard hoof. 
And still he was full of 'satiable curtiosity t He asked 
his broad aunt, the Hippopotamus, why her eyes were red, 
and his broad aunt, the Hippopotamus, spanked him with 
her broad, broad hoof; and he asked his hairy uncle, the 
Baboon, why melons tasted just so, and his hairy uncle, 
the Baboon, spanked him with his hairy, hairy paw. And 
sfUl he was full of 'satiable curtiosity ! He asked ques- 
tions about everything that he saw, or heard, or felt, or 
smelt, or touched, and all his uncles and his aunts spanked 
him. And still he was full of 'satiable curtiosity! 

One fine morning in the middle of the Precession of the 
Equinoxes this 'satiable Elephant's Child asked a few fine 

•/Jopritfbt, not, br tnijut Klpllnc. 


296 €^e Sbptsilut 

questions that he had never asked before. He asked 'What 
does the Crocodile have for dinner?" Then everybody said 
"Hush!" in a loud and dretful tone, and they spanked him 
immediately and directly, without stopping, for a long time. 

By and by, when that was finished, he came upon Kolo- 
kolo Bird sitting in the middle of a wait-a-bit thorn-bush, 
and he said, "My father has spanked me, and my mother 
has spanked me ; all my aunts and uncles have spanked me 
for my 'satiable curtiosity; and stilt I want to know what 
the Crocodile has for dinner!" 

Then Kolokolo Bird said, with a mournful cry, "Go to 
the banks of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, 
all set about with fever-trees, and find out." 

That very next morning this 'satiable Elephant's Child 
took a hundred pounds of bananas (the little short red 
kind), and a hundred pounds of sugar-cane (the long, 
purple kind), and seventeen melons (the greeny-crackly 
kind), and said to all his dear families, "Good-bye. I am 
going to the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all 
set about with fever-trees, to find out what the Croco- 
dile has for dinner." And tliey all spanked him once more 
for luck, though he asked them most politely to stop. 

Then he went away, a little warm, but not at all aston- 

Now you must know and understand, O Best Beloved, 
that till that very week, and day. and hour, and minute, 
this 'satiable Elephant's Child had never seen a Crocodile, 
and did not know what one was like. It was all his 
'satiable curtiosity. 

The first thing that he found was a Bi-CoIour«d-Py- 
thon-Rock- Snake, curled round a rock. 

" 'Sense me," said the Elephant's Child, most politely, 
"but have you seen such a thing as a Crocodile in these 
promiscuous parts ?" 

"Have I seen a Crocodile?" said the Bi-Coloured-Py- 
thon-Rock-Snake, in a voice of dretful scorn. "What will 
you ask me next ?" 

" 'Scuse me," said the Elephant's Child, "but could you 
kindly tell me what he has for dinner?" 

Then the Bi -Co loured- Python -Rock- Snake uncoiled him- 
self very quickly from the rock and spanked the Ele- 
phant's Child with his scalesome, flailsome tail. 

"That is odd," said the Elephant's Child, "because my 
father and my mother, and my uncle and my aunt, not to 


CC1)( 3peafc«r 297 

mention my other aunt, the Hippopotamus, and my other 
uncle, the Baboon, have all spanked me for my 'satiable 
curtiosity — and I suppose this is the same thing." 

So he said good-bye very politely to the Bi- Coloured- Py- 
thon-Rock-Snake, and helped to coil him up on the rock 
again and went on, a little warm, but not at all astonished, 
eating melons and throwing the rind about, because he 
could not pick it up, till he trod on what he thought was a 
log of wood, at the very edge of the great grey-green, 
greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever-trees. 

But it was really the Crocodile, O Best Beloved, and the 
Crocodile winked one eye — like this! 

" 'Scuse me," said the Elephant's Child, most politely, 
"but do you happen to have seen a Crocodile in these 
promiscuous parts?" 

Then the Crocodile winked the other eye and lifted half 
his tail out of the mud; and the Elephant's Child stepped 
back most politely, because he did not wish to be spanked 

"Come hither. Little One," said the Crocodile. "Why 
do you ask such things?" 

"'Sense me," said the Elephant's Child, most politely, 
"but my father has spanked me, my mother has spanked 
me, not to mention my tall aunt, the Ostrich, and my tall 
uncle, the Giraffe, who can kick ever so hard, as well as 
my broad aunt, the Hippopotamus, and my hairy uncle, the 
Baboon, and including the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock- 
Snake, with the scalesome, flailsome tail, just up the bank, 
who spanks harder than any of them ; and so, if it's quite 
all the same to you, I don't want to be spanked any more." 

"Come hither, Little One," said the Crocodile, "for I am 
the Crocodile," and he wept crocodile-tears to show it 
was quite true. 

Then the Elephant's Child grew all breathless, and 
panted, and kneeled down on the bank and said, "You are 
the very person I have been looking for all these long 
days. Will you please tell me what you have for dinner?" 

"Come hither. Little one," said the Crocodile, "and I'll 

Then the Elephant's Child put his head down close to 
the Crocodile's musky, tusky mouth, and the Crocodile 
caught him by his little nose, which up to that very week, 
day, hour, and minute, had been no bi^er than a boot, 
though much more useful. 


298 die i&peaftet 

"I think," said the Crocodile — and he said it between 
his teeth, like this — "I think to-day I will begin with the 
Elephant's Child." 

At this, O Best Beloved, the Elephant's Child was much 
annoyed, and he said, speaking through his nose, like this, 
"Led gol You are hurtig be!" 

Then the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake scuffled down 
from the bank and said, "My young friend, if you do not 
now, immediately and instantly, pull as hard as ever you 
can, it is my opinion that your acquaintance in the large- 
pattern leather ulster" (and by this he meant the Croco- 
dile) "will jerk you into yonder limpid stream before you 
can say Jack Robinson." Then the Elephant's Child sat 
back on his little haunches, and pulled, and pulled, and 
pulled, and his nose began to stretch. And the Crocodile 
floundered into the water, making it all creamy with great 
sweeps of his tail, and he pulled, and pulled, and pulled. 

And the Elephant's Child's nose kept on stretching; and 
the Elephant's Child spread all his little four legs and 
pulled, and pulled, and pulled, and his nose kept on stretch- 
it^; and the Crocodile threshed his tail like an oar, and 
he pulled, and pulled, and pulled, and at each pull the 
Elephant's Child's nose grew longer and longer — and it 
hurt him hijjus! 

Then the Elephant's Child felt his l^s slipping, and he 
said through his nose, which was now nearly five feet 
long, "This is too buch for be !" 

Then the Bi-Colou red-Python-Rock- Snake came down 
from the bank, and knotted himself in a douWe-clove-hitch 
round the Elephant's Child's hind legs, and said, "Rash 
and inexperienced traveler, we will now seriously devote 
ourselves to a little high tension, because if we do not, it 
is my impression that yonder self-propelling man-of-war, 
with his armour-plated upper deck" (and by this, O Best 
Beloved, he meant the Crocodile), "will permanently ^4- 
tiate your future career." 

This is the way all Bi-Coloured-P)1hon-Rock-Snake3 
always talk. 

So he pulled, and the Elephant's Child pulled, and the 
Crocodile pulled; but the Elephant's Child and the Bi- . 
Coloured-Python -Rock- Snake pulled hardest; and at last 
the Crocodile let go of the Elephant's Child's nose with a 
plop that you could hear all up and down the LJmpopo. 


^^ ^peaftrc 299 

Then the Elephant's Child sat down most hard and sud- 
den; but first he was careful to say "Thank you" to the 
Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake ; and next he was kind to 
his poor pulled nose, and wrapped it all up in cool banana 
leaves, and hung it in the great grey-green, greasy Lim- 
popo to cool. 

"What are you doing that for?" said the Bi-Coloured- 

" 'Sense me," said the Elephant's Child, "but my nose 
is badly out of shape, and I am waiting for it to shrink." 

"Then you will have to wait a long time," said the Bi- 
Coloured-Python-Rock- Snake. "Some people do not know 
what is good for them." 

The Elephant's Child sat there for three days waiting for 
his nose to shrink. But it never grew any shorter, and, be- 
sides, it made him squint. For, O Best Beloved, you will 
see and understand that the Crocodile had pulled it out into 
a really truly trunk, same as all Elephants have to-day. 

The Owl 


When cats run home and light is come. 

And dew is cold upon the ground. 

And the far-off stream is dumb. 

And the whirring sail goes round; 

And the whirring sail goes round; 

Alone and warming his five wits. 

The white owl in the belfry sits. 

When merry milkmaids click the latch. 

And rarely smells the new-mown hay. 
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch 
Twice or thrice his roundelay ; 
Twice or thrice his roundelay ; 
Alone and warming his five wits. 
The white owl in the belfry sits. 


The Courting of T*nowhead*s 


F^^^^OB two jears it had been notorious in the square 
that Sam'l Dickie was thinking of courting 
T'nowhead's Bell, and that if little Sanders 
tmmmga Elshioner (which is the Thrums pronunciation 
SjH|M of Alexander Alexander), went in for her, he 
SHSI might prove a. formidable rival. He only went 
courting once a week, and he could never take up the run- 
ning at the place where he left off the Saturday before. 
Thus he had not, so far, made great headway. His method 
of making up to Bell had been to drop in at T'nowhead on 
Saturday nights and talk with the farmer about the rinder- 

The courting of T'nowhead's Bell reached its crisis one 
Sabbath about a month after the events above recorded. 

The first half of the service had been gone through on 
this particular Sunday without anything remarkable hap- 
pening. It was at the end of the psalm which preceded the 
sermon that Sanders Elshioner, who sat near the door, 
lowered his head until it was no higher than the pews, and 
in that attitude, looking almost like a four-footed animal, 
slipped out of the church. In their eagerness to be at the 
sermon many of the congregation did not notice him, and 
those who did put the matter by in their minds for future 
investigation, Sam'l, however, could not take it so coolly. 
From his seat in the gallery he saw Sanders disappear, and 
his mind misgave him. With the true lover's instinct, he 
understood it all. Sanders had been struck by the fine turn- 
out in the T'nowhead pew. Bell was alone at the farm. 
What an opportunity to work one's way up to a proposal ! 
T'nowhead was so overrun with children that such a chance 
seldom occurred, except on a Sabbath. Sanders, doubt- 
less was off to propose, and he, Sam'l, was left behind. 

The suspense was terrible. Sam'l and Sanders had both 
known all along that Bell would take the first of the two 
who asked her. Even those who thought her proud ad- 
mitted that she was modest. Bitterly the weaver repented 


having waited so long. Now it was too late. In ten min- 
utes Sanders would be at T'nowhead ; in an hour all would 
be over. Sam'l rose to his feet in a daze. His mother 
pulled him down by the coat-tail, and his father shook him, 
thinking he was walking in his sleep. He tottered past 
them, however, hurried up the aisle, which was so narrow 
that Dan'l Ross could only reach his seat by walking side- 
ways, and was gone before the minister could do more than 
stop in the middle of a whirl and gape in horror after him. 

A number of the congregation felt that day the advan- 
tage of sitting in the laft. What was a mystery to those 
down-stairs was revealed to them. From the gallery win- 
dows they had a fine open view to the south ; and as Sam'l 
took the common, which was a short cut through a steep as- 
cent, to T'nowhead, he was never out of their line of vision. 
Sanders was not to be seen, but they guessed rightly the 
reason why. Thinking he had ample time, he had gone 
round by the main road to save his boots — ^perhaps, a little 
scared by what was coming. SamTs design was to fore- 
stall him by taking the shorter path over Uie burn and up 
the commonty. 

It was a race for a wife, and several onlookers in the 
gallery braved the minister's displeasure to see who won. 
Those who favored Sam'l's suit exultantly saw him leap 
the stream, while the friends of Sanders fixed their eyes 
on the top of the common where it ran into the road. San- 
ders must come into sight there, and the one who reached 
this point first would get Bell. 

Had it been any other day in the week Sam'l might have 
run. So some of the congregation in the gallery were 
thinking, when suddenly they saw him bend low and then 
take to his heels. He had caught sight of Sanders' head 
bobbing over the hedge that separated the road from the 
common, and feared that Sanders might seehim. The con- 
gregation who could crane their necks sufficiently saw a 
black object, which they guessed to be Sanders' hat, crawl- 
ing along the hedge-top. For a moment it was motionless, 
and then it shot ahead. The rivals had seen each other. It 
was now a hot race. Sam'l. dissembling no longer, clat- 
tered up the common, becoming smaller and smaller to the 
on-lookers as he neared the top. More than one person in 
the gallery almost rose to their feet in their excitement. 
SamT had it No. Sauiders was in front Then the two 


302 M^t ^peafter 

fibres disappeared from view. They seemed to run into 
each other at the top of the brae, and no one could say who 
was first. The congregation looked at one another. StMne 
of them perspired. But the minister held on his course. 

Saml had jusb been in time to cut Sanders out It was 
the weaver's savii^ that Sanders saw this when his rival 
turned the comer; for Sam'l was sadly blown. Sanders 
took in the situation and gave in at once. The last hundred 
yards of the distance he covered at his leisure, and when he 
arrived at his destination he did not go in. It was a fine 
afternoon for the time of year, and he went round to have 
a look at the pig, about which T'nowhead was a little sin- 
fully puffed up. 

"Ay," said Sanders, digging his fingers critically into 
the grunting animal; "quite so." 

"Grumph," said the pig, getting reluctantly to his feet. 

"Ou, ay, yes," said Sanders, thoughtfully. 

Then he sat down on the edge of the sty, and looked long 
and silently at an empty bucket But whether his thoughts 
were of T'nowhead's Bell, whom he had lost forever, or of 
the food the farmer fed his pig on, is not known. 

"Lord preserve's! Are ye no at the kirk?" cried Bell, 
nearly dropping the baby as Sam'l broke into the room. 

"Bell t" cried Sam'l. 

Then T'nowhead's Bell knew that her hour had come. 

"Sam'l," she faltered. 

"Will you hae's, Bell ?" demanded Sam'i glaring at her 

"Ay," answered Bell. 

Sam'l fell into a chair. 

"Bring's a drink o' water. Bell," he said. But Bell 
thought the occasion required milk, and there was none in 
the kitchen. She went out to the byre, still with the baby 
in her arms, and saw Sanders Elshioner sitting gloomily 
on the pig-sty. 

"Weel, Bell," said Sanders. 

"I thocht ye'd been at the kirk, Sanders," said Bell. 

Then there was silence between them. 

"Has Sam'l speired ye. Bell ?" asked Sanders, stolidly, 

"Ay," said Bell agam, and this time there was a tear in 
her eye. Sanders was little better than an "orra man," 
and Sam'l was a weaver, and yet — But it was too late now. 
Sanders gave the pig a vicious poke with a stick, and when 


it had ceased to grunt, Bell was back in the kitchen. She 
had forgotten about the milk, however, and Sam'l only 
got water after all. 

Sanders remained at the pig-sty until Sam'l left the 
farm, when he joined him at the top of the brae, and they 
went home together, 

"It's yersel, Sanders," said Sam'l. 

"It is so, Sam'l," said Sanders. 

"Very cauld," said Sam'l, 

"Blawy," assented Sanders, 

After a pause — 

"Sam'l," said Sanders. 


"I'm hearin' ye're to be marrit," 


"Weel, Sam'l, she's a snod bit lassie." 

"Thank ye," said Sam'l, 

"I had ance a kin' o' notion o' Bell mysel," continued 

"Ye had?" 

"Yes, Sam'l ; but I thocht better o't." 

"Hoo d'ye mean?" asked Sam'l, a little anxiously. 

"Weel, Sam'l, mairitch is a terrible responsibeelity." 

"It is so," said Sam'l, wincing, 

"An' no the thing to tak' up without conseederation." 

"But it's a blessed and honorable state, Sanders; ye've 
heard the minister on't." 

"They say," continued the relentless Sanders, " 'at the 
minister doesna get on sair wi' the wife himsel'," 

"So they do," cried Sam'l, with a sinking at the heart, 

"I've been telt," Sanders went on, " 'at gin you can get 
the upper ban' o' the wife for a while at first, there's the 
mair chance o' a harmonious exeestence," 

"Bell's no the lassie," said Sam'l appealingly, "to thwart 
her man." 

Sanders smiled. 

"D'ye think she is, Sanders?" 

"Weel, Sam'l, I d'na want to fluster ye, but she's been 
ower lang wi' Lisbeth Fargus no to hae learnt her ways. 
An' a'body kens what a life T'nowhead has wi' her." 

"Guidsake, Sanders, hoo did ye no speak o' this aforef' 

"1 thocht ye kent o't, Sam'l." 


304 Z^t SbvtiUx 

"But, Sanders," said Sam'l, brightening up, "ye was on 
yer way to speir her yersc!'." 

"I was, Sam'l," said Sanders, "and I canna but be 
thankfu' ye was ower quick for's." 

"Gin't hadna been you," said Sam'l, "I wid never hae 
thocht o't." 

"I'm sayin' naething agin Bell," pursued the other, 
"but, man, Sam'l, a body should be mair deleeberate in a 
thing o' the kind." 

"It was michty hurried," said Sam'l, woefully. 

"It's a serious thing to speir a lassie," said Sanders. 

"It's an awfu' thing," said Sam'l, 

"But we'll hope for the best," added Sanders in a hope- 
less voice. 

They were close to the Tenements now, and Sam'l looked 
as if he were on his way to be hanged. 

"Sam'l !" 

"Ay, Sanders," 

"Did ye — did ye kiss her, Sami?" 



"There was verra little time, Sanders," 

"Half an 'oor," said Sanders, 

"Was there ? Man, Sanders, to tell ye the truth, j never 
thocht o't." 

Then the soul of Sanders Elshioner was filled with con- 
tempt for Sam'l Dickie. , 

The scandal blew over. At first it was expected that the 
minister would interfere to prevent the union, but beyond 
intimating from the pulpit that the souls of Sabbath-break- 
ers were beyond praying for, and then praying for Sam'l 
and Sanders at great length, with a word thrown in for 
Bell, he let things take their course. Some said it was 
because he was always frightened lest his young men 
should intermarry with other denominations, but Sanders 
explained it differently to Sam'l. 

"I hav'na a word to say agin the minister," he said ; 
"they're gran' prayers, but, Sam'l, he's a mairit man him- 

"He's a' the better for that, Sanders, isna he?" 

"Do ye no see," asked Sanders compassionately, "at he's 
tryin' to mak' the best o't ?" 

"Oh, Sanders, man I" said Sam'l. 


IC|( i&prattev so5 

"Cheer up, Sam'l," said Sanders, "it'll sune be ower." 
Their having been rival suitors had not interfered with 
their friendship. On the contrary, while they had hitherto 
been mere acquaintances, they became inseparables as the 
wedding-day drew near. It was noticed that they had 
much to say to each other, and that when they could not 
get a room to themselves they wandered about together in 
the churchyard. When Sam'l had anything to tell Bell he 
sent Sanders to tell it, and Sanders did as he was bid. 
There was nothing that he would not have done for Sam'l. 
The more obliging Sanders was, however, the sadder 
Sam'l grew. He never laughed now on Saturdays, and 
sometimes his loom was silent half the day. Sam'l felt 
that Sanders's was the kindness of a friend for a dying 

It was to be a penny-wedding, and Lisbeth Fargus said 
it was delicacy that made Sam'l superintend the fitting-up 
of the barn by deputy. Once he came to see it in person, 
but he looked so ill that Sanders had to see him home. 
This was on the Thursday afternoon, and the wedding was 
fixed for Friday. 

"Sanders, Sanders," said Sam'l, in a voice strangely un- 
like his own, "it'll a' be ower by this time the mom," 

"It will," said Sanders. 

"If I had only kent her langer," continued Sam'l. 

"It wid hae been safer," said Sanders. 

"Did ye see the yallow floor in Bell's bonnet ?" asked the 
accepted swain. 

"Ay," said Sanders reluctantly. 

"I'm dootin' — I'm sair dootin' she's but a flichty, light- 
hearted crittur after a'." 

"I had ay my suspeecions o't," said Sanders. 

"Ye hae kent her langer than me," said Sam'l, 

"Yes," said Sanders, "but there's nae gettin' at the heart 
o* women. Man, Sam'l, they're desperate cunnin'." 

"I'm dootin't; I'm sair dootin't." 

"It'll be a wamin' to ye. Sam'l, no to be in sic a hurry i' 
the futur," said Sanders. 

Sam'l groaned. 

"Ye'U be gaein up to the manse to arrange wi' the min- 
ister the mom's momin'," continued Sanders, in a subdued 

Saml looked wistfully at his friend. 


306 V^t S>9f3Mtt 

"I canna do't, Sanders," he said, "I canna do't." 

"Ye maun," said Sanders. 

"It's easy to speak," retorted Sam'I bitterly. 

"We have a' oor troubles, Saml," said Sanders sooth- 
ingly, "an' every man maun bear his ain burdens. Johnny 
Davie's wife's dead, an' he's no repinin'." 

".\y," said Sam'I, "but a death's no a mairitch. We hae 
haen deaths in our family, too," 

"it may a' be for the best," added Sanders, "an' there 
wid be a michty talk i' the hale country-side gin ye didna 
ging to the minister like a man," 

"I maun hae langer to think o't," said Sam'I. 

"Bell's mairitch is the mom," said Sanders decisively. 

Sam'I glanced up with a wild look in his eyes. 

"Sanders !" he cried. 


"Ye have been a guid friend to me, Sanders, in this sair 
affliction. " 

"Nothing ava," said Sanders; "dount mention'd." 

"But, Sanders, ye canna deny but what your rinnin' oot 
o' the kirk that awfu' day was at the bottom o'd a'," 

"It was so," said Sanders bravely. 

"An' ye used to be fond o' Bell, Sanders." 

"I dinna deny't." 

"Sanders, laddie," said Sam'I bending forward and 
speaking in a wheedling voice, "I aye thocht t' was you she 

"I had some sic idea mysel'," said Sanders. 

"Sanders, I canna think to pairt twa fowk sae weel 
suited to ane anither as you an' Bell." 

"Canna ye, Sam'I!" 

"She wid mak' ye a guid wife. Sanders. I hae studied 
her weel, and she's a thrifty, douce, clever lassie. Sanders, 
there's no the like o' her. Jfony a time, Sanders, I hae 
said to mysel', 'There's a lass ony man micht be proud to 
tak'.' A'body says the same, Sanders. There's nae risk 
ava, man: nane to speak o'. Tak' her, laddie, tak' her. 
Sanders : it's a grand chance, Sanders. She's yours for 
the speirin'. I'll gie her up, Sanders," 
"Will ye, though ?" said Sanders. 
"What d'ye think ?" asked Sam'I. 
"If ye wid rayther," said Sanders, politely. 
"There's my ban' on't," said Samuel. "Bless ye, Sand- 
ers ; ye've been a true f rien' to me." 


C^e S^taktt 307 

, Then they shook hands for the first time in their lives ; 
and soon afterward Sanders struck up the brae to T'now- 

Next morning Sanders Elshioner, who had been very 
busy the night before, put on his Sabbath clothes and 
strolled up to the manse. 

"But — but where is Sam'l?" asked the minister; "I 
must see himself." 

"It's a new arrangement," said Sanders. 

"What do you mean, Sanders?" 

"Bell's to marry me," explained Sanders. 

"But — but what does Sam'l say?" 

"He's willin'," said Sanders. 

"And Bell?" 

"She's willin', too. She prefers't." 

"It is unusual," said the minister. 

"It's a' richt," said Sanders. 

"Well, you know best," said the minister. 

"You see the hoose was taen. at ony rate," continued 
Sanders. "An' I'll juist ging in till't instead o' Sam'l." 

"Quite so." 

".\n' I cudna think to disappoint the lassie." 

"Your sentiments do you credit, Sanders," said the min- 
ister ; "but I hope you do not enter upon the blessed state 
of matrimony without full consideration of its respon- 
sibilities. It is a serious business, marriage." 

"It's a' that," said Sanders, "but I'm willin' to stan' the 

So, as soon as it could be done, Sanders Elshioner took 
to wife T'nowhead's Bell, and I remember seeing Sam'l 
Dickie trying to dance at the penny wedding. 

sdbvGoO^^lc _ 

€tt S^psain 

John Storm's Resolution* 


[This dramatic and intensely interesting story is well 
suited to recitation. Indeed, the story made one of the 
best plays Viola Allen has had. Several scenes may be 
arranged for readings. More than one reader has made a 
success of the entire book as a monologue. This cutting 
from "The Christian" ($1.50) is reprinted by permission 
of D. Appleton & Co., New York.] 

N Storm and Glory Quayle as children had 

;en fond of each other. At about the same 

me they went to London, John to become a 

linister, and Glory a, John remained, 

5 in their childhood days, her friend and 

junsellor. When she took to the stage, and 

found her companions among those who cared nothing for 

the work John was doing, he thought lier selling her soul 

for success as an actress. Finally, in a fit of jealous love 

and fanaticism, he conceives it to be his duty to kill her. 

With that awful purpose in his heart, he awaits her return 

from the races, where she has spent the day and most of 

the night with a gay crowd. He is in her apartments. 

After a moment there was the sound of a key in the lock 
of the door below; the rustle of a woman's dress coming 
up the stairs, an odor of perfume in the air, an atmosphere 
of freshness and health, and then the door of the room. 
which had been ajar, was swung open, and there on the 
threshold, with her languid and tired, but graceful move- 
ments, was she herself, Glory. Then his head turned 
giddy, and he could neither hear nor see. 

When Glory saw him standing by the lamp, with his 
deadly pale face, she stood a moment in speechless as- 
tonishment, and passed her hand across her eyes as if to 
wipe out a vision. After that she clutched a chair and 
made a faint cry. 

"Oh, is it you?" she said in a voice which she strove to 

• CopplKht, ins, 1WT, br Hftll Caloa. 


control. "How you frightened me! Whoever would have 
thought of seeing you here?" 

He was trying to answer, but his tongue would not obey 
him, and his silence alarmed her. 

"I suppose Liza let you in — where is Liza?" 

"Gone to bed," he said in a thick voice. 

"So you see we are quite alone!" 

She did not know why she said that, and, in spite of the 
voice which she tried to render cheerful, her lip trembled. 
Then she laughed, though there was nothing to laugh at, 
and down at the bottom of her heart she was afraid. But 
she began moving about, trying to make herself easy and 
pretending not to be alarmed. 

"Well, won't you help me off with my cloak? No? 
Then I must do it for myself, I suppose." 

Throwing off her outer things, she walked across the 
room and sat down on the sofa near to where he stood. 

"How tired I am ! It's been such a day ! Once is 
enough for that sort of thing, though! Now where do 
you think I've been?" 

"I know where you've been. Glory, — I saw you there." 

"You? Really? Then perhaps it tcaj you who — Was 
it vou in the hollow?" 


He had moved to avoid contact with her, but now, stand- 
ing by the mantelpiece, looking into her face, he could not 
help recognizing in the fashionable woman at his feet the 
features of the girl once so dear to him, the brilliant eyes, 
the long lashes, the twitching of the eyelids, and the rest- 
less movement of the mouth. Then the wave of tender- 
ness came sweeping over him again, and he felt as if the 
ground were slipping beneath his feet. 

"Will you'say your prayers to-night. Glory?" he said, 

"Why not?" she answered, trying to laugh. 

"Then why not say them now, my child ?" 

"But why?" 

He had made her tremble all over, but she got up, 
walked straight across to him, looked intently info his face 
for a moment, and then said : "What is the matter ? Why 
are you so pale ? You are not well, John !" 

"No, I'm not well, either," he answered. 

"John, John, what does it all mean? What are you 
thinking of? Why have you come here to-night?" 

"To save your soul, my child. It is in great, great peril." 


310 iSlte^dpeateVj 

At first she took this for the common, everyday language 
of the devotee, but another look into his face bajiished that 
interpretation, and her fear rose to terror. Nevertheless, 
she ^Iced hghtly, hardly knowing what she said. "Am I, 
then, so very wicked? Surely heaven doesn't want me yet, 
John. Some day I trust — I hope — " 
"To-night, to-night — now!" 

Then her cheeks turned pale, and her lips became white 
and bloodless. She had returned to the sofa, and half rose 
from it, then sat back, stretching out one hand as if to 
ward off a blow, but still keeping her eyes riveted on his 
face. Once she looked round to the door and tried to cry 
out, but her voice would not answer her. 

This speechless fright lasted only a moment. Then she 
was herself again, and looked fearlessly up at him. She 
had the full use of her intellect, and her quick instinct went 
to the root of things. "This is the madness of Jealousy," 
she thought. "There is only one way to deal with it If I 
cry out — if I show that I am afraid — if I irritate him, it 
will soon be over." She told herself in a moment that she 
must try gentleness, tenderness, reason, affection. love. 

Trembling from head to foot, she stepped up to him 
again, and began softly and sweetly trying to explain her- 

"John, dear John, if you see me with certain people and 
in certain places, you must not think from that — " 

But he broke in upon her with a torrent of words. "I 
can't think of it at all. Glory. When I look ahead I see 
nothing but shame and misery and degradation for you in 
the future. That man is destroying you, body and souL 
He is leading you on to the devil and hell and damnation, 
and I cannot stand by and see it done!" 

"Believe me, John, you are mistaken, quite mistaken." 
But with a look of sombre fury, he cried, "Can you deny 
"I can protect and care for myself, John." 
"With that man's words in your ears still, can you deny 
it? You can't! It is the truth! The man is following 
you to ruin you, and you know it. You've known it from 
the first, therefore you deserve all that can ever come to 
you. Do you know what you are guilty of? You are 
guilty of soul-suicide. What is the suicide of the body to 
the suicide of the soul?" 

She was crying behind her hands, and in spite of the 


jC?»« SpwitciP 311 

fury into which he had lashed himself, a great pity look 
hold of him. He felt as if everything were slipping away 
from him, and he was trying to stand on an avalanche. 
But he told himself that he would not waver, that he would 
hold to his purpose, that he would stand firm as a rock. 
Heaving a deep sigh, he walked to and fro across the room. 

"O, Glory, Glory! Can't you understand what it is to 
me to be the messenger of God's judgment?" 

She gasped ior breath, and what had been a vague sur- 
mise became a certainty — ^thinking he was God's avenger, 
yet with nothing but a poor spasm of jealousy in his 
heart, he had come with a fearful purpose to perform. 

"I did what I could in other ways, and it was all in vain. 
Time after time I tried to save you from these dangers, 
but you would not listen. I was ready for any change, any 
sacrifice. Once I would have given up all tiie world for 
you, Glory — you know that quite well — friends, kinsmen, 
country, everything, even my work and my duty, and, but 
for the grace of God, God Himself!" 

But his tenderness broke again into a headtong torrent of 
reproach. "You failed me, didn't you ? At the last mo- 
ment, too — the very last ! Not content with the suicide of 
your own soul, you must attempt to murder the soul of an- 
other. Do you know what that is ? That is the unpardon- 
able sin ! You are crying, aren't you ? Why are you cry- 
ing? But that is all over now. It was a blunder, and the 
breach betwen us b irreparable. I am better as I am — far, . 
far better. Without friends or kin or country, consecrated 
for life, cut off from the world, separate, alone !" 

She knew that her moment had come, and that she must 
vanquish this man and turn him from his purpose, what- 
ever it was, by the only weapon a woman could use — his 
love for her. "I do not deny that you have a right to be 
angry with me," she said, "but don't you think that I have 

r'ven up something, too. At the time you speak of, when 
chose this life and refused to go with you to the South 
Seas, I sacrificed a good deal — I sacrificed love. Do you 
think I didn't realize what that meant? That whatever the 
pleasure and delight my art might bring me, and the flat- 
tery, and the fame, and the applause, there were joys I 
was never to know — the happiness that every poor woman 
may feel, though she isn't clever at all, and the wcrld 
knows nothing about her — the happiness of being a wife 
and a motber, and of holding her place in life; however 


312 CP^ dpraftet 

humble she is and simple and unknown, and of linking the 
generations each to each. And, though the world has been 
so good to me, do you think I have ever ceased to regret 
that ? Do you think I don't remember it sometimes when 
the house rises at me, or when I am coming home, or per- 
haps when I awake in the middle of the night? And, not- 
withstanding ail this success with which the world has 
crowned me, do you think I don't hunger sometimes for 
what success can never buy — the love of a good man who 
would love me with all his soul and his strength and 
everything that is his?" 

Out of a dry and husky throat John Storm answered: 
"I would rather die a thousand, thousand deaths than 
touch a hair of your head. Glory , . , But God's will is 
His will;" he added, quivering and trembling. I'he com- 
pulsion of a great passion was drawing him, but he strag- 
gled hard against it. "And then this success — you cling 
to it, nevertheless!" he cried, with a forced laugh. 

"Yes, I chng to it," she said, wiping away the tears 
that had begun to fall. "I cannot give it up, I cannot, I 

"Then what is the worth of your repentance?" 

"It is not repentance — it is what you said it was — in this 
room — long ago. . . . We are of different natures, — John 
— that is the real trouble between us, now and always has 
been. But whether we like it or not, our lives are wrapped 
■up together for all that. We can't do without each other. 
God makes men and women like that sometimes." 

There was a piteous smile on his face, "I never doubted 
your feeling for me. Glory, No, not even when you hurt 
me most." 

"And if God made us so — " 

"I shall never forgive myself, Glory, though heaven 
itself forgives me!" 

"If God makes us love each other in spite of every 
barrier that divides us — " 

"I shall never know another happy hour in this life. 
Glory — never!" 

"Then why should we struggle? It is our fate, and we 
cannot conquer it. Yon can't give up your life, John, and 
I can't give up mine; but our hearts are one. You are 
wrong, dear, if you think I care for the man you speak of. 
He has been very good to me and helped me in my career, 
hut he is nothing to me — nothing whatever. But we are 


CI|7 S^V^afttV 313 

such old friends, John ? It seems impossible to remember a 
time when we were not old cliiims, jou and I ! Some- 
times I dream of those dear old days in the 'lil oilan' ! Aw, 
they were ter'ble— just ter'ble! Do you remember the boat 
— the Gloria — do you remember her? What times they 
were ! Coming round the castle of a summer evening when 
the bay and the sky were like two sheets of silvered glass 
looking into each other, and you and I singing 'John Peel' 
(in a quavering voice she sang a bar or two) : " 'D'ye ken 
John Peel, with his coat so gay? D'ye ken John Peel' — 
Do you remember it, John?" 

She, was sobbing and laughing by turns. It was her old 
self, and the cruel years seemed to roll back. But still he 
struggled. "What is the love of the body to the love of 
the soul?" he told himself. 

"You wore flannels then, and I was in a white jersey — 
like this, see," and she snatched up from the mantelpiece 
the photograph he had been looking at. "I got up my first 
act in imitation of it, and sometimes in the middle of a 
scene — such a jolly scene, too — my mind goes back to that 
sweet old time, and I burst out crying." 

He pushed the photograph away. "Why do you remind 
me of those days?" he said. "Is it only to make me 
realize the change in you?" 

"Am I so much changed, John? Am I? No, no, dear! 
It is only my hair done differently. See, see!" and with 
trembling fingers she tore her hair from its knot. It fell 
in clusters over her shoulders and about her face. 

"Or, is it this old rag of lace that is so unlike my jersey? 
There — there!" she cried, tearing the lace from her neck, 
and throwing it on the floor and trampling upon it. "Look 
at me now, — John— look at me! Am I not the same as 
ever? Why don't you look?" 

She was fighting for her life. He started to his feet and 
came to her with his teeth set and his pupils fixed. "This 
is only the devil tempting me. Say your prayers, child 1 
Say them, say them !" he cried. "God sent me to kill you. 

A sensation of terror and triumph came over her at 
once. She half closed her eyes and threw her arm around 
his neck. "No. but to love me! — Kiss me, John!" 

Then a cry came from him hke a man flinging himself 
oyer a precipice. He threw his arms about her, and her 
disordered hair fell over his face. 


314 fT]^ i&peaitev 

The Flood of the Floss 


[This scene from "The Mill on the Floss" follows soon 
after the quarrel between Tom and Maggie TuUiver. As 
Tom would neither condone nor forgive her folly witli Ste- 
phen Guest, Maggie, driven from home, lived with the 
family of Bob Jakin.j 

iT was past midnight in the second week of Sep- 
tember, and the rain was beating heavily 
against the window, driven with fitful f^-ce 
by the rushing, loud-moaning wind. In the 
counties higher up the Floss, the rains had 
been continuous, and the completion of the 
harvest had been arrested. And now, for the the last two 
days, the rains on this lower course of the river had been 
incessant, so ttiat the old men had shaken their heads and 
talked of sixty years ago, when the same sort of weather, 
happening about the equinox, brought on the great floods, 
which swept the bridge away, and reduced the town to 
great misery. But the younger generation, who had seen 
several small floods, thought lightly of these sombre recol- 
lections and forebodings; and the careless and the fearful 
were alike sleeping in their beds now. There was hope 
that the rain would abate by the morrow. All were in 
their beds now. for it was past midnight ; all except some 
solitary watchers, such as Maggie Tulliver. She was 
seated in her little parlor toward the river, with one 
candle burning dimly, helplessly watching the flood creep 
slowly up to the house. At last she fell on her knees 
against the table and buried her sorrow-stricken face, and 
her soul went out to the Unseen Pity that would be with 
her to the end. But at that moment Ma^e felt a start- 
ling sensation of sudden cold about her knees and feet: 
it was water flowing under her. She started up; the 
stream was flowing under the door that led into the pas- 
sage. She was not bewildered for an instant — she laiew 
it was the flood ! She hurried with the candle up-stairs 
to Bob Jakin's bedroom. The door was ajar; she went 
in and shook him by the shoulder. 


"Bob, the flood is come! it is in the house T Let us see 
if we can make the boats safe." 

She lighted his candle, while the poor wife, snatching up 
her baby, burst into screams ; and then she hurried down 
again to see if the waters were rising fast. While she was 
looking, something came with a tremendous crash against 
the window, and sent the leaded panes and the old wooden 
framework inwards in shivers — the water pouring in after 

"It is the boat," cried Maggie. 

And without a moment's shudder of fear, she plunged 
through the water, which was rising fast to her knees, and 
by the glimmering light of the candle she had left on the 
stairs, she mounted on the window-sill, and crept into the 
boat, which was left with the prow lodging and protrud- 
ing through the window. Bob was not long after her. 

"Why, they're both here— both the boats," said Bob, as 
he got into the one where Maggie was. In the excitement 
of getting into the other boat, unfastening it and mastering 
an oar. Bob was not struck with the danger Ma^;te in- 
curred. ■ She had got possession of an oar and had pushed 
off, so as to release the boat from the over-hanging win- 

"The water's rising fast," said Bob. "I doubt it'll be in 
at the chambers before long — th' house is so low." But 
Maggie had no time to answer, for a new tidal current 
swept along the line of the houses and drove both the 
boats out on to the wide water wih a force that carried 
them far past the meeting current of the river. 

In the first moments Maggie felt nothing, thought of 
nothing, but that she had suddenly passed away from that 
life which she had been dreading; it was the transition of 
death, without its agony — and she was alone in the dark- 
ness with God. 

The whole thing had been so rapid — so dream-like — that 
the threads of ordinary association were broken ; she sank 
down on the seat clutching the, oar mechanically, and for a 
long while had no distinct conception of her position. The 
first thing that waked her to fuller consciousness was the 
cessation of the rain. She was driven out upon the flood — 
that awful visitation of God which her father used to talk 
of — which had made the nightmare of her childish dreams. 


316 9rf)s i&peafca 

And with that thonght there rushed in the vision of the 
old home — and Tom — and her mother, 

"O God, where am I? Which is the way home?" she 
cried out, in the dim loneliness. 

What was happening to them at the Mill? They might 
be in danger — in distress; her mother and her brother, 
alone there, beyond reach of help! Her whole soul was 
strained now on that thought ; and she saw the long-loved 
faces looking for help into the darkness, and finding none. 

She was floating in smooth water now — perhaps far on 
the over-flooded fields. Yes — she must be out on the fields 
— those were the tops of hedgerow trees. Which way did 
the river lie? Lookin,^ behind her, she saw the lines of 
black trees : looking before her, there were none ; then, the 
river lay before her. She seized an oar and began to paddle 
the boat forward with the energy of awakening hope; the 
dawning seemed to advance more swiftly now she was in 
action ; and she could soon see the poor dumb beasts crowd- 
ing piteonsly on a mound where tliey had taken refuge. 
Onward she pad<lled and rowed by turns in the growing 
twihght; her wet clothes clung round her. and her stream- 
ing hair was dashed about by the wind, but she was hardly 
conscious of any bodily sensation, except a sensation of 
strength inspired by mighty emotion. 

But now there was a large, dark mass in the distance, 
and near to her Maggie could discern the current of the 
river. The dark mass must be — yes, it was — St. O^'s. 
Ah, now she knew which way to look for the first glimpse 
of the well-known trees — the gray willows, the now yel- 
lowing chestnuts — and above them the old roof ! But there 
was no color, no shape, yet : all was faint and dim. 

She must get her boat into the airrent of the Floss, else 
she would never be able to pass the Ripple and approach 
the house. But then she might be carried very far down, 
and be unable to guide her boat out of the current again. 
For the first time distinct ideas of danger began to press 
upon her; but there was no choice of courses, no room for 
hesitation, and she floated into the current. Swiftly she 
went now, without effort; more and more clearly in the 
lessening distance and the growing hght she began to 
discern the objects that she knew must be the well-known 
trees and roofs: nay, she was not far from a rushing 
muddy current that must be the strangely altered Ripple. 


trt)( S^peaUt 817 

Great God ! there were floating masses in it, that might 
dash against her boat as she passed, and cause her to perish 
too soon. What were those masses ? 

For the first time Maggie's heart began to beat in an 
agony of dread. She sat helpless— dimly conscious that 
she was being Boated along — more intensely conscious of 
the anticipated crash. But the horror was transient; it 
passed away before the oncoming warehouses of St, 
Ogg's; she had passed the mouth of the Ripple, then; 
now, she must use all her skill and power to manage the 
boat and get it, if possible, out of the current. 

With new resolution, Maggie seized her oar, and stood 
up again to paddle ; but the now ebbing tide added to the 
swiftness of the river, and she was carried along beyond 
the bridge. She took both her oars and rowed with all her 
might across the watery field, back toward the Mill. Color 
was beginning to awake now, and as she approached the 
Dorlcote fields, she could discern the tints of the trees — 
could see the old Scotch firs far to the right, and the home 
chestnuts — oh, how deep they lay in the water! deeper than 
the trees on this side the hill. And the roof of the Mill — 
where was it ? Those heavy fragments hurrying down the 
Ripple — what had they meant ? But it was not the house — 
the house stood firm ; drowned up to the first story, but 
still firm— or was it broken in at the end toward the Mill ? 

With panting joy that she was there at last — joy that 
overcame all distress — Maggie neared the front of the 
house. At first she heard no sound ; she saw no object 
moving. Her boat was on a level with the up-stairs win- 
dow. She called out in a loud, piercing voice : 

"Tom, where are you? Mother, where are you? Here 
is Magnet" 

Soon, from the window of the attic in the central gable, 
she heard Tom's voice: 

"Who is it? Have you brought a boat?" 

"It is I, Tom — Maggie. Where is mother?" 

"She is not here ; she went to Garum the day before yes- 
terday. I'll come down to the lower window." 

"Alone. Maggie?" said Tom, in a voice of deep astonish- 
ment, as he opened the middle window on a level with the 

"Yes, Tom ; God has taken care of me to bring me to 
you. Get in quickly. Is there no one else?" 


318 €^ dpcafcn; 

"No," said Tom, stepping into the boat, "Give me the 
oars, Maggie." 

It was not till Tom had pushed off and they were on the 
wide water — he face to face with Maggie — that the full 
meaning of what had happened rushed upon his mind. It 
came with so overpowering a force — that he was unable to 
ask a question. They sat mutely gazing at each other: 
Maggie with eyes of intense life looking out from a weary 
beaten face ; Tom pale with a certain awe and humiliation. 
But at last a mibt gathered over the blue-gray eyes, and the 
lips found a word they could utter; the old. childish — 

Maggie could make no answer but a long, deep sob of 
that mysterious, wondrous happiness that is one with pain. 

Tom rowed with untired vigor, and with a different 
speed from poor Maggie's. The boat was soon in the cur- 
rent of the river again, and soon they would be at Tofton. 

But a new danger was being carried toward them by 
the river. Some wooded machinery had just given 
away on one of the wharves, and huge fragments were 
being floated along. The sun was rising now, and the wide 
area of watery desolation was spread out in dreadful clear- 
ness around them — in dreadful clearness floated onward 
the hurrying, threatening masses. A large company in a 
boat that was working its way along under the Tofton 
houses, observed their danger and shouted, "Get out of 
the current!" 

But that could not be done at once, and Tom, looking 
before him, saw death rushing on them. Huge fragments, 
clinging together in fatal fellowship, made one wide mass 
across the stream. 

"It is coming, Maggie!" Tom said, in a deep, hoarse 
voice, loosing the oars and clasping her. 

The next instant the boat was no longer seen upon the 
water — and the huge mass was hurrying on in hideous 

But soon the keel of the boat reappeared, a black speck 
on the golden water. 

The boat reappeared — but brother and sister had gone 
down in an embrace never to be parted, living through 
again in one supreme moment the days when they had 
clasped their hands in love, and roamed the daisied fields 


The Real Muck-Rake Man 


[Extract from the baccalaureate sermon delivered at 
Princeton University.] 

// there be any virtue attd if there be any praise, think 
on these things. — Phil. 4 : 8. 

THERE are a hundred sermons in this text, out of 
which I choose a short one, on the "Contagion 
of Virtue." The reason for this choice lies in 
the fact that at present the minds of men are 
largely preoccupied with the epidemic of vice. 
An important subject, for serious evils have 
infected our social, c<»nmercial and political life, and un- 
less they are discovered and laid bare and extirpated, there 
can be Httle hope of soundness and vigor in the body politic. 
But no man was ever made strong and well merely by 
studying his infirmities and taking medicine for his dis- 
eases. What the nation needs most of all is to fix the at- 
tention and the heart on the things that are true and honor- 
able and just and clean and lovely and of good report. The 
soul of a man, and the soul of a people, can be invigorated 
only by the contagion of virtue and the inspiration of 

The air of our country to-day is heavily charged with 
electricity. The lighming of exposure has been striking 
into dark places and playing havoc with houses that were 
founded upon lies. The thunder of denunciation rolls all 
around the horizon ; many hearts are troubled ; some are 
dismayed. Voices of despair are heard, crying that all is 
rotten — society, business, politics — all must go down. 
Voices of anger and malice are heard, exulting in the ruin 
of reputations and the shaking of public confidence. Friv- 
olous voices are heard, laughing and mocking at the disast- 
ers that have befallen the prosperous, and hysterical voices, 
shrieking for more excitement, more exposure, more cal- 

On the other side conservative and soothing voices are 
heard protesting against the tempest, urging men to be 


320 srt)e Sbv^sJixx^ 

calm and tranquil and contented ; to look at the unex- 
ampled prosperity and general happiness of our country; 
to believe that all the serious evils have been already ex- 
posed, and that all will be well with us if we keep on 
doing business at the old stand in the old way. 

Where is the truth? Where shall thoughtful men place 
their confidence? With which party shall we ally our- 
selves? Neither with the hysterical shriekers, nor with 
the soporific soothers; neither with the tar-and-feather 
pessimists, nor with the rosewater optimists, neither with 
those who seek to tear things down, nor with those who 
endeavor to hush things up. Rather let us take our stand 
with those who are both wide-awake and sane ; those who 
desire that no good man shall go unhonored, as earnestly 
as tliey wish that no guilty man shall go unpunished ; those 
whose life is given not to tearing things down, nor to 
hushing things up, but to building things up on the eternal 
foundations of positive manhood and the moral law. 

Meantime let us understand clearly that the man who is 
responsible for much of our present trouble, apart from 
the inevitable complications which spring from our na- 
tional inexperience and bewildering prosperity, is that 
notorious individual, "the man with the muck-rake." 

The real muck-raker is not the honest critic of abuses, 
not even the malicious assailant of vested interests and 
invested politicians; but this busy, silent, indefatigable 
fellow, whose eyes are so fixed upon the things of this 
world — golden dust, and husks of pleasure, and withered 
straws of notoriety, and brittle sticks of oflRcial power — 
that he cannot even look, much less think, on the celestial 
crown of virtue and praise. 

Yes, you are the man, you money-spinner ; hasting to be 
rich and forgetting to be honest, generous, or kind ; bend- 
ing your conscience to your dealing if need be to succeed ; 
putting all your energy, all your ambition into the service 
of "Mammon, the least erected spirit that fell from 
heaven;" counting over your golden dollars as if they 
were sacred beads in a new rosary of devotion, and con- 
gratulating yourself upon the pile of dust that you have 
raked together — you are the muck-raker. 

You are the man, you pleasure-seeker; fixing your de- 
sires upon sensual ease and luxury; racing to and fro in 
your costly chase after new excitements ; measuring every- 


11^ '3]Wat(¥ 321 

thing unconsciously by its power to minister to your per- 
sonal gratification, and thinking yourself fortunate accord- 
ing to the quantity of husks, clean or dirty, that you have 
gathered into your trough — you are the muck-raker. 

You are the man, you lover of place and power ; clutch- ■ 
ing at every petty distinction and paltry office that comes 
in your way ; sacriticing your peace of mind and your in- 
dependence of thought, in order to win favor with those 
who can help you; making yourself the most servile kind 
of a follower in order to be called a leader ; letting your- 
self be used by everybody for fear somebody may turn you 
out; spending infinite pains and care to build your plat- 
form of dry sticks a little higher, not that you may look 
up at the stars, but that you may look down on the rest 
of the world — you are the muck-raker. 

That is the symbol and ensign of all you great ones who 
have fatally succeeded, and of the lesser ones who totter 
after you, and gape at you, and try to imitate you with 
their poor little tools, broken-toothed, short-handled, piti- 
fully inadequate — that is the sign of you all who know 
nothing higher than wealth and pleasure and place and 
power: the sign of the muck-rake. In that sign you im- 
peril the Republic. 

How? By looking only downwards, never upwards. 
By bending high faculties to low ends. By corrupting the 
minds of youth with false standards of success and lying 
maxims of self-interest. By drawing the thoughts of men, 
by the glitter of riches and the glare of fashion, to rest 
on you, and the like of you, instead of on virtue and 
praise. By making your lives one long denial of the things 
that make life worth living — honor, kindness, self-sacri- 
fice, integrity, faith and love. The man who suspects you, 
watches you, exposes you if you have stolen your muck- 
rake, or hurt other people with it, or used it for a rake-off, 
is justified. What you need in that case is to be discov- 
ered, punbhed and forgotten, and the sooner the better, 
for the Republic can learn nothing from you but shame. 


322 Zftt ^ft&Uv 

The Hunt 

{From The Critic, October, /poj.) 
Oug:hnl Oughn! The hounds are away, 
They are out and abroad, on the dunes to-day ; 
And the crows are still. 
On the tree by the hill ; 

And the wild cat shriijcs, and cowers, and blinks. 
And peers through the woven pine bough's chinks; 
And the black snake slides, and slips, and glides 
From the hot south slope where he suns his sides; 
And the blue jay hushes his peevish note. 
And the catbird's warble dies in his throat. 
As he darts to a snug oak spray. 
But the fox — the fox is stealing away. 
Silent and swift, 
Just an ear to lift. 
For the sound of the distant bay; 
Noiseless and fast as the sea- fog drifts 
Through the winding dunes, when the shore wind shifts; 
By bog, and thicket, and path he creeps. 
And over the fallen log he leaps ; 
Bold in the blow-hole his eye has scanned — 
For he knows the lay of the wind-heaved land — 
His quick feet dimple the tawny sand; 
By the Deep Bog ditch and along the ridge. 
Where a cat may cross on the grapevine bridge, 
— Over the ridge ; and he dives at last. 
Safe and fast. 
In his burrow deep. 
On the northern steep. 
Under the dune. 
Where no August noon 
Can crumble the wall away; — 
Where the first frost catches 
The ivy patches. 

And the woodbine reaches its blazing lines. 
Wreathing the stems of the leaning pines. 
And hiding the lichens gray: 
While the Horseneck* lies in a mute surprise, 
Waiting and wise, till the tumult dies ; 
For the hounds are abroad to-day. 

-el; three ml 

from Rbode Idiind 


Ballade of Francois Villon, as 
He Was About to Die 

{From The Critic, January, 1903.) 


[Francois Villon, being about to die, a worthy friar 
would fain have shrived him, and did earnestly exhort him 
that he should confess him at this time of those acts of his 
life which he did regret, Villon bade him return yet again 
that he might have time to bethink him of his sins. Upon 
the good father's return, Villon was dead ; but by his side 
were the following verses, his last, wherein he set forth 
those things which he did regret. Whereat the friar was 
sore grieved, and hid them away amid the manuscripts of 
his abbey, showing them to no man ; yet were th«y found 
in some wise. The name of the friar, and the very place 
where stood the abbey, are forgot ; but the verses have en- 
dured tmto this day.] 


I, Fran<^is Villon, ta'en at last 

To the rude bed where all must lie. 
Fain would forget the turbid Past 

And lay me down in peace to die. 
"Would I be shrived?" Ah— can I tell? 

My sins but trifles seem to be. 
Nor worth the dignity of Hell ; 

If not, then ill avails it me 
To name them one and all, — and yet — 
There be some things which I regret! 

The sack of abbeys, many a brawl, 

A score of knife-thrusts in the dark, 
Forced oft, by Fate, against the wall, 

And years in donjons, cold and stark — 
These crimes and pains seem far away 

Now that I come at length to die: 


A ^t SbptsHttt 

Tis idle for the Past to pray, 
X'Tis hopeless for the Past to sigh) ; 
These are a troubled dream — and yet— 
For them I have but scant regret 1 

The toil my mother lived to know, 

What years I lay in gyves fw debt; 
A pretty song heard long ago : 

Where. I know not ; when, I forget ; 
The crust I once kept for my own 

(Tho' all too scant for my poor use). 
The friend i left to die alone, 

(Perdie! the watchman pressed us close!) 
Trifles, against my crimes to set ! 
Yet these are all which I regret. 

Captains and cut-throats, not a few. 
And maidens fair of many a clime 
Have named me friend in the wild past 

When as we wallowed in the slime ; 
Gamblers and rogues and clever thieves. 

And unfrocked priests, a sorry crew, 
(How stubbornly the memory cleaves 
To all who have befriended you!) 
I drain a cup to them — and yet — 
'Tis not for such I feel regret ! 

My foundered horse, who died for me 

(Nor whip nor spur was his, I ween!) 
That day the hangman looked to see 

Poor Vilton earth and sky between t 
A mongrel cur who shared my lot 

Three bitter winters on the He : 
He held the rabble off, God wot. 

One time I cheated in the deal : 
'Twas but an instant, while I fled 

Down a vile alley known to me, — 
Back in the tavern he lay flead ; 

The gamblers raged — ^but I went free! 
Humble, poor brutes at best; and yet— • 
They are the friends whom I regret! 


And eke the lilies were a-blow 

Thro' all the sunny fields of France, 
I marked one whiter than the snow 

And would have gathered it, perchance, 
Had not some trifle I forget 

(A Bishop's loot, a cask of wine 
Filched from some cabaret — a bet — ) 
Distracted this wild head of mine. 
A childish fancy this, and yet — 
It is a thing that I regret ! ' 

Again, I rode thro' Picardy 

What time the vine was in the bud ; 
A little maiden smiled on me, 

I might have kissed her, an' I would ! 
I've known a thousand maidens since. 
And many have been kind to me, — 
I've never seen one quite so fair 
As she, that day in Picardy. 
Ashes of roses these, and yet — 
They are the things which I regret! 

One perfect lily grew for me, 

And blossomed on another's breast: 
Others have clasped the little hands 

Whose rosy palms I might have pressed ; 
So, as I die, my wasted youth 

Mocks my dim eyes and fading breath : — 
Still, I have lived ! And having lived 
That much is mine. I mock at death ! 
I should confess, you say? But yet — 
For Life alone have I regret! 


O bubbles of the vanished wine 

To which my lips were never set! 
O lips that dimpled close to mine. 
Whose ruddy warmth I never met! 
Father, but trifles these, and yet — 
They are the things which I regret! 


Lady Moon 


Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving? 

"Over the sea." 
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving? 

"AH that love me." 

Are you not tired with rolling, and never 

Resting to sleep? 
Why look so pale and so sad, as forever 

Wishir^ to weep? 

"Ask me not this, little child, if you love me ; 

You are too bold; 
I must obey my dear Father above me, 

And do as I'm told." 

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving? 

"Over the sea." 
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving? 

"All that love me." 


My Rival 


I go to concert, party, ball — what profit is in these? 
I sit alone against the wall and strive to look at ease. 
The incense that is mine by right they burn before her 

shrine ; 
And that's because I'm seventeen and she is forty-nine. 

I cannot check my girlish blush, my color comes and goes; 
I redden to my finger-tips, and sometimes to my nose ; 
But she is white where white should be, and red where 

red should shine. 
The blush that flies at seventeen is fixed at forty-nine. 

I wish I had her constant cheek ; I wish that I could sing 
All sorts of funny little songs, not quite the proper thing. 
I'm very gauche and very shy, her jokes aren't in my line ; 
And, worst of all, I'm seventeen, while she is forty-nine. 

The young men come, the young men go, each pink and 

while and neat; 
She's older than their mothers, but they grovel at her feet. 
They walk beside her 'rickshaw wheels — none ever walk 

by mine; 
And that's because I'm seventeen and she is forty-nine. 

She rides with half a dozen men (she calls them "boys" 

and "mashes,") 
I trot along the Mall alone ; my prettiest frocks and sashes 
Don't help to fill my program-card, and vainly I repine 
From ten to two a. m. Ah, me ! Would I were forty-nine. 

She calls me "darling," "pet," and "dear," and "sweet, 

retiring maid." 
I'm always at the back, I know ; she puts me in the shade. 
She introduces me to men, "cast" lovers, I opine. 
For sixty takes to seventeen, nineteen to forty-nine I 

But even she must older grow and end her dancing days. 
She can't go on forever so at concerts, bails and plays. 
One ray of priceless hope I see before my footsteps shine; 
Just think, that she'll be eighty-one when I am forty-nine! 


328 ir|e ^pealtrt 



When I was a laddie langsyne at the schule, 
The minister aye ca'd me a dunce and a f ule ; 
For somehoo his words I could ne'er un'erstan'. 
Unless when he bawled, "Jamie ! haud oot yer han !" 

Then I gloom'd, and said "Imph-m," — 

I glunch'd, and said "Imph-m" 
I wasna owre proud, but owre dour to say — A-y-e! 

Ae day a queer word, as lang-nebbit's himsel'. 
He vow'd he would thrash me if I wadna spell; 
Quo I, "Maister Quill," wi' a kin' o' a swither, 
"I'll spell yc the word if ye '11 spell me anitber;" 

"Let's hear ye spell 'Imph-m,' 

Thjrt common word 'Imph-m,' 
That auld Scotch word 'Imph-m,' ye ken it means A-y-e I" 

Had ye seen how he glowr'd, hoo he scratched his big pate. 
An' shouted, "Ye villain, get oot o' my gate I 
Get aff to yer seat! yer the plague o' tiie schule! 
The de'il o' me kens if yer maist r(^ue or fule," 

But I only said "Imph-m," 

That pawkie word "Imph-m," 
He cou'dna spell "Imph-m,' that stands for an A-y-e I 

An' when a brisk wooer, I courted my Jean — 
O' Avon's braw lasses the pride an' the queen — 
When 'neath my grey plaidie, wi' heart beatin' fain, 
I spiered in a whisper, if she'd be my ain. 

She blushed, and said "Imph-m," 

That charming word "Imph-m," 
A thoosan' times better an' sweeter than — A-y-« ! 

And noo I'm a dad wi' a hoose o' my ain — 
A dainty bit wifie, an' mair than ae wean ; 
But the warst o't is this — when a question I spdr. 
They int on a look sae auld-farran' an queer. 

But only say "Imph-m," 

That daft-like word "Imph-m," 
That vulgar word "Imph-n?" — they winna say — A-y-e! 


ir|e S^ptakn 329 

Ye've heard hoo the de'il, as he wauchel'd through Beith 
Wi' a wife in ilk oxter, an' ane in his teeth, 
When some ane cried oot "Will you tak' mine the mom?" 
He wa^d his auld tail while he cockit his horn, 

But only said "Imph-m," 

That useful' word "Imph-m," 
Wi' sic a big mouthfu', he couldna say — A-y-el 

Sae I've gi'en owre the "Imph-m" — it's no a nice word; 

When printed on paper it's perfect absurd ; 

Sae if ye're owre lazy to open yer jaw, 

Just baud ye yer tongue, an' say naething ava ; 

But never say "Imph-m," 

That daft-like word "Imph-m." 
It's ten times mair vulgar than even braid — A-y-e ! 

Looking Forward 


When I am grown to man's estate 
I shall be very proud and great. 
And tell the other girls and boys 
Not to meddle with my toys. 


330 V^t S^uiat 

Mrs. Atwood's Outer 


[There are eleven stories in this excellent book, "Little 
Stories of Married Life," most of them good material for 
^^^^^ow much will a new suit cost, Jo?" 

L^l I Mr. Atwood held his fingers reflective^ on 

^ ^ I the rubber band of his pocketbook as he asked 
n the question, and glanced as he did so at the 
I round, brunette face of his wife, which had 
' suddenly become all flush and sparkle. 

"Oh, Edward ! You oughtn't to give me the money for 
it now — you really oughtn't. There are so many calls on 
you at this season of the year, I don't see how we can meet 
them as it is. The second quarter of Josephine's music 
lessons b^ns next month, and the dancing school bill 
comes in, too — besides the coal. Everything just piles in 
before Christmas. I can do very well for a while with 
what I have — really!" 

"How about the Washii^on trip with me next month? 
I thought you said you couldn't go anywhere without a 
new suit." 

"Well, I can't, but—" 

"That settles it. How much will it take?" 

"I could get the material for a dollar a yard, but I sup- 
pose it ought to be heavier weight for the winter. It 
would take seven yards, or I might get along with six and 
a half; it depends on the width. It's the linings that make 
it mount up to so much, and the making. You can get a 
suit made for ten dollars." 

"Will thirty dollars be enough?" asked Mr. Atwood, 
with masculine directness, seeking for some tangible fact. 

"Oh, yes. I'm sure it will be ; I — " 

"Then here's fifty. Get a good suit while you're about 
it, Jo." 

"Oh, Edward, I don't want — " 

"Make her take it," said a girl of sixteen, rising from the 
corner where she had been sitting with a book in her hand. 
"Make her take it, papa. She buys everything for me and 
the boys, and goes without herself, so that I'm ashamed to 
walk out in the street with her; it makes me look so hor- 
• Copyrlgbl, IWt. by HcClnre, PUIUpa ft Co. Beprlnled br >pecl>l pi 


C!»e Sb9$9,1Ut 331 

rid to be all dressed up when she wears that old spring 
jacket When it's cold she puts a cape over it I wish 
you'd see that cape 1 She's had it since the year one. She 
doesn't dare wear it when she goes out with you ; she just 

"You needn't say any more, either of you. I'll take the 
money. If I were only as good a manager as some people! 
I don't know what's the matter with me. I try, and I try, 

"Yes, yes, I know," said the husband. "All i asK now is 
that you spend this money on yourself; it's not for other 
needs. Remember ! You are to spend it all on yourself." 

The extra money cast a rich glow over Mrs. Atwood's 
horizon. In the effulgence of it she received a bill for 
twelve dollars, presented to her just before breakfast the 
next morning by the waitress, with the word that the man 
waiting outside the door had already brought it once be- 
fore, when they were out of town. Could Mrs. Atwood 
pay it now ? He needed the money, 

"Why, certainly," said Mrs. Atwood, with affluent 
promptness. The bill was for work on the lawn during the 
summer, something her husband always paid for, but it 
seemed a pity to have the man go away again when the 
money was there at hand. She would not in the least 
mind askit^ Edward to refund it to her. 

Her husband came home that night with a bad headache, 
and the night after she had another bill waiting for him 
for repairs on the furnace. It was unexpectedly and vil- 
lainously large, and Mrs. Atwood was constitutionally in- 
capable of adding another straw to his burden, while she 
stood by consenting sympathetically unto his righteous 
wrath. A day later, when she spoke of going to town to 
buy the material for her new costume with outward buoy- 
ancy, but inward panic at the rapid shrinkage of her funds, 
Sam, a boy of twelve, announced the fact that he must 
have a new suit of clothes at once. As it was Saturday, he 
could accompany her. 

Mrs. Atwood looked at her son with rare exasperation. 
But Sam came from town that jubilant evening in warm 
and roomy jacket and trousers, and, oh, weakness of 
woman! with a new football, besides. Mrs, Atwood car- 
ried with her a box of lead soldiers for Eddy, and a sweet 
little fluffy thing in neckwear for Josephine, such as she 
saw aibtx girls displaying. After all, what was her own 


332 Cl»c S^aixt 

dress in comparison with the darling children's happiness? 
She would get some cheap stuff and make it up herself. 
No one would know the diSerence. 

"How about your suit, Jo ?" asked her husband, one ev- 
,ening, as they sat around the fire. "Is it almost finished?" 

"Not — exactly," said Mrs. Atwood. 

"The club goes to Washington on the fifteenth of the 
m<»ith — it was decided to-day. Nearly all the men are 
going to take their wives with them. I'm looking forward 
to showing off mine." 

"Have you ordered the suit yet?" asked the voice of 

"No, I haven't — yet." 

"I don't believe there is any money left for it. She 
spends it for other things, papa. She pays bills and 
doesn't tell, because she hates to bother you. And she 
buys things for us. And she paid a subscription to the 
Orphans' Home yesterday, and she got a new wash-boiler 
for Katy. And — " 

"Hush, hush, Josephine," said her father, severely. "I 
found that receipted bill of Patrick's lying around the 
other day, Jo, I should have paid you bade at once. How 
much money have you left ?" 

"Oh, Edward — I'm so foolish. I — " 

"Have you thirty dollars?" 

"I — I don't think so." 

"Have you twenty?" 

"I haven't — more than that." She had, as she well knew, 
the sum of nine dollars and sixty-seven cents in the purse 
in her dressing-table drawer. 

"Will this help you out?" 

"Oh, Edward — please don't 1 It makes me feel so — 
But nearly all of it has gone for necessary things," 

"That's all right Don't let there be any mistake about 
it this time, Jo." 

Mrs. Atwood now set herself seriously to the work of 
getting appareled. She read advertisements, and went to 
town two days in succession, bringing home samples of 
cloth for family approval; she sought the advice of her, 
sister-in-law, Mrs. Callender, and of her friend, Mrs. 
Nichols, with the result that she finally sat down one 
morning immediately after breakfast and wrote a letter to 
a New York firm ordering a jacket and skirt made like one 


^t S^aktt 333 

in a catalogue issued by them, and setting down her meas- 
urements according to its directions. Just before she 
finished, a maid brought her up word that Mrs. Martindale 
was below. 

Mrs. Martindale was her cousin, and lived over the 
other side of the trade, some distance away. Mrs, Atwood 
hurried down with a premonition of evil to find the visitor, 
a pretty woman, elegantly, but hastily, gowned, sitting on 
the edge of a chair, as if ready for mstant flight. There 
was a wild expression in her eye. 

"I suppose you think I'm crazy to come here in this 
way. I didn't sleep a wink last night. I didn't know what 
to do. We're in such a state I" 
"Is it the business?" 

"Oh, it's the estate and the business and everything. 
Mr. Bellew's death has just brought the whole thing to a 
standstill. All the money is tied up in some dreadful way 
— don't ask me. Of course it will be all right in three or 
four weeks, Dick says, and we have credit everywhere. 
It's Just to tide over this time. But we haven't a penny of 
ready money; not a penny, Dick gave me all he could 
scrape together last week, and told me to try to make it 
last, but it's all gone — I couldn't help it. And the washer- 
woman comes to-day. If you could let me have ten dol- 
lars, Jo ; I couldn't bear to let Dick know," 
"Why, certainly." 

Mrs. Atwood rushed upstairs to get one of her crisp 
ten-dollar bills; she could not use the house money for 
this. She passed Josephine in the hall, afterwards, on her 
way to school, and held the bill behind her, but she felt 
sure the girl's keen eyes had spied it 

"I'm so glad I had it! Are you sure this will be 
enough?" What were clothes for herself in comparison 
with poor Bertha's needs? She would look over the cat- 
ologue again to-morrow, when she had time, and order 
a cheaper suit, or buy one ready made. 

After all, she did neither. Her money — but why chron- 
icle further the dimunition of her forces ? 

As the time approached for the Washington trip she 
hoped that she might have some excuse to remain at 
home, but there seemed to be no loophole of escape. 

She tried to freshen up her heaviest skirt, and took the 
spring jacket she was wearing and made a thick Hning to 


334 cnie S^a.1ttK 

it, planning to disguise it further with a piece of fur at the 
nedc. She felt horribly guilty when Josephine came in 
and caught her at it, but she merely said : 

"I suppose that's to save your new suit. You'll never 
be able to get into it if you put so much wadding in." 

Many a time she tried to saew her courage up to con- 
fessing that she had no outer raiment; that, after all the 
money and all her promises, she had nothing to show in ex- 
change. The fatal moment had to come, but she put it ofE. 

It was three nights before the fatal Thursday, and the 
family were grouped in the library, as was their wont in 
the evenings immediately after dinner. Mr. Atwood, al- 
though his hair and moustache were grizzled and his face 
prematurely lined, had a curious faculty of suddsnly look- 
ing like a boy, under some pleasurable emotion ; anticipa- 
tion of his holiday made him young for the moment. His 
wife thought him beautiful. 

"Well, Jo, has your suit come home yet? You must be 
sure to have it on time. Take all your party clothes along, 

"Oh, yes, I'm going to," said Mrs, Atwood. She was on 
sure ground here. The gown she had made for a wedding 
in the spring was crying to be worn again. 

"What color did you decide on ?" 

"I — I decided on — ^brown," 

"Brown — yes, I always liked you in brown. Didn't you 
wear brown when we went on our wedding trip? It seems 
to me that I remember that. I know you had red berries 
in your hat, for I knocked some of them out. What makes 
you look so unhappy, Jo? Aren't you glad to go off with 
me — in a new suit?" 

"Edward!" said Mrs. Atwood. She rose and stood in 
front of him, her dark eyes unnaturally large, the color 
coming and going in her rounded olive cheek. Her red 
lips trembled. "Edward! I have something to tell you." 

"There's the door bell," said her husband, with an ar- 
resting hand, as he listened for the outer sounds. 

"A package, sir. By the express. Twenty-five cents." 

"Have you the change, Jo? It's some clothes I ordered 
myself for the Washington trip ; I wanted to do you credit. 
Oh, don't go up-stairs for it." 

"I don't mind," said Mrs. Atwood. Change? She had 
nothing but change. Clothes ! How easy it was for him 


C^e SbptaMtt 335 

to get them ! Do her credit — in his glossy newness, while 
she was in that old black sldrt, grown skimp and askew 
with wear, and that tight, impossible jacket! She charged 
up and down stairs in the vehemence of her emotion, filled 
with anger at her folly, and paid the man herself before 
re-entering the library. 

Her husband was untying the cords of the long paste- 
board box with slow and patient fingers. The children 
were standing by in what seemed unnecessary excitement, 
their faces all turned to her as she came toward them. 
Edward had lifted the cover off the box. 

"What color are your clothes, Edward ?" 

"What color? Oh — brown," said Mr. Atwood. He 
swooped her into a front place in the circle with his long 
arm. "Here, look and tell me what you think of this." 

"Lined throughout with taffeta, gores on every frill — 
why, Jo!" 

Before the eyes of Mrs. Atwood lay the rich folds of a 
cloth skirt, surmounted by a jacket trimmed with fur. 

She lay back in the armchair with the family clustered 
around her, their tongues loosened. 

"We all knew about it — " "We promised not to tell — " 
"We wanted to see you get it — " "You left out that let- 
ter of measurements, and papa and I took it to Aunt 
Cynthia, and she helped us. She says you're disgracefully 
unselfish," "There isn't anybody in the world as good as 
you are. I was watching you all last week ; I knew you 
wouldn't buy a thing. But it was papa who thought of 
doing it, when I told him. Feel the stuff — isn't it lovely ? 
so thick and soft. He and Aunt Cynthia said you should 
liave the best; she can spend money! And you're to go 
uptown to-morrow with me to buy a hat with red in it, 
and if the suit needs altering it can be done then. Don't 
you like it, mamma?" 

"It's perfectly beautiful," said the mother, her hands 
clasped in those of her three darlings, but her eyes sought 
her husband's. 

He alone said nothing, but stood regarding her with 
twinkling eyes, through a suspicion of moisture. What 
did she see in them? The love and kindness that clothed 
her not only with silk and wool, but with honor; that made 
of this new raiment a vesture wherein she entered that 
special and exquisite heaven of the woman whose husband 
and children arise up and call her blessed. 


site 3praltet 
A Gocxi Dinner' 

(From "Little Stories of Married Life.") 

AM going to have a good dinner to-night, 
Catherine, and I want you to help me." 
"Yeri, ma'am — for how many?" 
"Only four. Mr. Callender expects to 
bring two men home with him this evening. 
I've decided on some of the things I want. 
You know how to make cream of celery soup? And 
boiled sahnon, with white sauce — and cucumbers dressed 
with oil and vinegar — " 

"You'll have to order the oil, ma'am, as we're just out 
of it." 

"Yes, I will ; of course, we'll need it for the mayonnaise 
also. I'll have tomato salad, and I wish you would make 
some cheese wafers to go with it like those we had when 
you came last week. They were awfully good. And I 
want just a few rhubarb tarts and a frozen chocolate pud- 
ding for dessert, with whipped cream. And you might 
make a small cake of any kind that's easy, Catherine." 

"What kind of meat is it to be, ma'am?" 

"Spring lamb, with mint sauce, and fresh peas and new 
potatoes, — if I can get them," she added reverently as a 
saving clause. 

"And oh, Catherine, we'll have coffee, of course ; and I 
wish you'd make some of those lovely little rolls of yours 
— that is, if you have time." 

"You'll make out a list, ma'am, if you please, of the 
things we do be needing. I'd have to get at the cake and 
the rolls this morning. There's not a thing in the house 
to-day to start on. We've no eggs, nor cheese, nor cream, 
nor chocolate, and not enough butter, and no rock salt for 
the freezing, and there's no fruit, either, if you want that." 

"Oh, yes, certainly! It's well that you reminded me. 
I'm going out to-day to luncheon. I'll go and see about 
the ordering at once as soon as I have given Nelly direc- 
tions about the table. I want everything to look as pretty 

■ OurmiKni. 1»B. by MKHnn 
Um author mt^ -* "■- "•>•"-■" 


dte i^oto 337 

as possible. Mr. Callender is going to bring me some very 
lovely flowers for the center of it." 

When Mrs. Callender finally went upstairs to dress she 
found, to her consternation, that it was already half-past 
eleven, and not a thing ordered yet ! 

Every moment now was precious. She concentrated all 
her attention, and, sitting down by her desk, took up a 
sheet of blue paper and wrote down rapidly on it a list of 
all her wants. Then, fortune favoring her with the sight 
of little Jack Rand across the street on his bicycle, she 
called him over and confided the list to his care, saying: 

"You will not have to tell them anything except that 
they are to send the things at once." 

There was a load off her mind when Jack returned to 
aliirm the faithful performance of his errand before she 
started out for the luncheon. "They had all the things, 
and they'll send them right up ; they promised." 

As a matter of fact, the six-o'clock bells were ringing 
before Mrs. Callender had started to walk home from the 
station, feeling thoroughly guilty as she thought of her 
defection from the affairs of the household on such a day. 

She hastened into the kitchen, to be confronted by a 
scene of spotless order, a brilliant fire in the range shed- 
ding a red glow over the hearth: and the white-aproned 
cook, sitting in front of it, with her hands folded and a 
stony glare in her eyes. 

"How is the dinner getting on?" asked Mrs. Callender, 

"There ab't no dinner." 

"No dinner 1 What do you mean, Catherine?" 

"Not a sign of a thing has come this whole blessed day, 
ma'am; and me a-waitin' here with my ironin' half done, in 
the middle of the week. Not an egg nor a potato is there 
in the house, even." 

Mrs. Callender stopped, confounded. The shops were 
all closed at that hour. 

"Why, I saw Jack Rand myself, after he had given the 
order;" she exclaimed, and then — she knew: on the other 
side of the paper on which she had written her list was 
Ihe address of a new-comer, who lived across the track at 
the other end of the village. The marketing had gone 


338 <rt»e 3peaftn 

"Well, I never heard of such a thing!'* she commented, 
blankly, and, as usual, laughed. 

It was but a brief ten minutes later that her husband 
was presenting his guests to her — they had come! She 
had been but hoping against hope that they would not. 

"Cynthia, I want to introduce Mr. Warburton and Mr. 
Kennard. I have persuaded them to dine with us to- 

"It was awfully good of your husband to invite us," said 
Mr. Warburton. "i hope we'll not inconvenience you, 
Mrs. Callender." 

"Not in the least," said Mrs. Callender, immediately and 
intrepidly rising to the occasion. 

"Mr, Nichols wished us to dine at the Waldorf-Astoria. 
But I found, accidentally, that these gentlemen were ex- 
tremely tired of living at hotels, and longed for a little 
home-like dinner, by way of variety," 

"We have been so much in your big hotels," said Mr. 
Warburton, apologetically. "It malces one very dull, after 
a time, I think. You can't imagine, Mrs. Callender, our 
joy when Mr. Callender so kindly offered to take us in. It's 
so uncommonly jolly of you both to treat us in this way," 

"I remembered that you said we were to have a particu- 
larly good dinner to-night, so I didn't telegraph you when 
I found that they couI4 come," said Mr. Callender, when 
the party had separated to dress and he and his wife were 
alone in their room, "Nichols is very anxious to have 
them pleased. They're looking at machines, and if they 
take the London agency for us it will make a big differ- 
ence. Why on earth do you look at me in that way? Is 
there anything wrong?" 

"No; nothing is wrong," said his wife ironically, "ex- 
cept that we haven't any dinner — to speak of. Chauncey, 
the order went wrong in some way, this morning, and the 
marketing never came at all. Just stand and take that in. 
If you had only helped me at breakfast when I asked you 
to, it wouldn't have happened. I was away all afternoon, 
and, of course, Catherine never sent for anything — just sat 
and waited. There's nothing in the house but some cans 
of mock-turtle soup and tomatoes, and one can of corned 
beef, and a small one of plum pudding. Catherine is go- 
ing to warm the beef in the tomatoes, and make a sauce 


C^t S)ptUUt S39 

for the pudding. I'd die before I'd apologize beforehand 
to those men ; they'd never forgive themselves for coming." 

"Good gracious! And to think we've come from the 
Waldorf-Astoria for this ! But couldn't you knock up an 
omelet, or a Welsh rarebit, or some sort of a side dish? 
Couldn't you borrow something?" 

"Nelly went to the Appletons and the Warings to see if 
she couldn't get some eggs, but they had only one left at 
each place. It's no use, Chauncey, we've got to do the best 
we can. I've put on my prettiest gown, and — for goodness 
sake, Chauncey, rise to the occasion all you can !" 

When the two irreproachably attired men made their 
entrance into the drawing-room, Mr, Warburton returned 
to the subject of their invitation. 

"It's so good of you to have us without any notice — so 
uncommonly jolly for us. We've been so tired of hotel 
cooking, after the steamer." 

"Yes," chimed in the other, "it grew to be almost as tire- 
some to us as the beastly tinned food we lived on when we 
were in Africa." 

"Oh, have you been in Africa lately?" asked Mrs. Cal- 
lender, with composure, although she and her husband felt 
the piercing of a mortal dart, and did not dare to look at 
each other. 

"Yes, Kennard and I were on an exploring expedition 
last year, accidentally ; it's quite a long tale — ^but we lived 
on tinned soups and meats, and even plum pudding — fancy 
it in the hot climate ! — until even the smell of them sick- 
ened us. We've not been able to touch a bit of tinned 
food since," 

"Canned things— or tinned, as you call them — are very 
useful in emergencies," said Mrs. Callender, with idiotic 
solemnity. "You know you have to eat them sometimes — 
when you can't — help yourself, you know. Oh, yes, in 
emergencies tinned things are very useful — if you like 

"Ah, yes, yes, if you like them — if you like them, War- 
burton, yes — mind that, yes t" 

"Excuse me for a moment," said Mrs. Callender, with 
graceful deliberation, sweeping slowly out of the room, 
and as soon as the door had closed behind her rushing into 
the kitchen wildly. 

"Don't dish up a thing, Catherine. It is no use; th« 


340 8|( S^aUt 

gentlemen never eat anything canned. I've got to thinb 
up something else." She turned appealingly to the wait- 
ress, a young and venturesome person, as woman to wo- 
man. "You must know of something I could do, Nelly !" 

"The Warings, ma'am — " 

"You told me you'd been there, and that everything they 
had was cooked for their own dinner." 

The eyes of Irish Nelly sparkled. "That's just it, ma'am. 
Mr. Waring's home late to-night, and they're only just 
now sitting down to the soup. I seen it going in through 
the window. If you — " she stopped tentatively. 

"Well, well — say it!" 

"Sure, they'd loan you the whole dinner, ma'am, if you 
asked it. You'd give the lend of it yourself, ma'am," said 
Nelly, impartially. 

Mrs. Callender gasped — 

"Come!" she said, and, followed by the maid, dashed out 
of the kitchen door, down the back piazza steps, and then 
up again on the piazza of the adjoining house. 

The people seated at the table in the dining-room looked 
up at the long window, amazed to see Mrs. Callender ges- 
ticulating insanely at them from without, 

"Don't help any more of that soup," she called insist- 
ently. "Don't help any more of it — wait till I get in. No, 
no! it's not poisoned, I don't mean that — it's all right; 
but I want it myself ; I want your dinner. Oh, will you let 
me take it home with me ?" 

"No, I'm not crazy! I mean just what I say. My hus- 
band has brought home company, and we had only a 
canned dinner, and they can't eat it because they've been 
in Africa — and, oh, I can't explain. And it's so important 
to treat them well, and oh, you dear thing!" 

Mrs. Waring handed the soup to Nellie and was al- 
ready giving orders to her own maid. 

"Don't say another word. Send us over just what you 
have in exchange. We have only a plain home dinner — 
roast beef, vegetables, macaroni, cottage pudding — ^you can 
put the things in your oven again, Henry, carry over this 
roast, will you? Don't make any noise, any of you," 

"I'll take the potatoes," said Mrs. Callender, fervently ; 
but, as she climbed her own piazza steps once more, and 
saw the ghostly procession that came and went stealthily 


C^ ^ptRftOt 341 

bearing dishes, her knees suddenly bent under her, and 
she leaned against one of the piazza posts, too weak from 
laughter to move. 

"Hello, what's the matter?" Mr. Callender, with an ex- 
cited whisper, came peering out into the semi-darkness, 
"That back door keeps letting in an infernal draught. 
What on earth are you and Waring doing out here, 
Cynthia? Don't you know that we're waiting for dinner, 
and it's after half-past seven o'clock?" 

His ill-used expression was the last straw. Mr. Waring 
rocked and reelod with his platter, while the roast per- 
formed an obligato movement. 

"Oh!" moaned Mrs, Callender, as her husband finally 
assisted her to an erect position, and offendedly took up 
the dish of potatoes. "Don't say a word, don't ask me a 
thing; you'll never in this world know all I've gone 
through in the last hour — you couldn't take it in. But 
I've got the dinner — your &iglishmen are provided for — 
your future is assured, and all that we have to do now is 
to go in and eat — and eat — and eat." 

Hjmin of a Child 


Loving Jesus, meek and mild. 
Look upon a little child I 

Make me gentle as Thou art. 
Come and live within my heart. 

Take my childish hand in Thine, 
Guide these little feet of mine. 

So shall all my happy days 

Sing their pleasant song of praise; 

And the world shall always see 
Christ, the Holy Child, in met 


342 tri)r S>9tiin 

The Day of Precious Penalties* 


[This delightful story of child life appeared in A/c- 
'Clure's Magasine, February, 1906. Together with the 
rest of the series, it is included in "The Pettison Twins," 
published by McClure, Phillips & Co. The arrangement is 
printed by special permission of the publishers.] 

T^^^^"%HE Privileges of Parenthood was a monthly 
magazine devoted to the home management of 
children and to their intellectual and moral 
advancement; and by its helpful pages Mrs. 
Pettison was at present steering her offspring, 
pinning her entire faith to its utterances. 

This month it contained, in addition to its usual budget 
of hints, two articles which appealed to Mrs. Pettison as 
magnificent. These articles were, "Make Confidants of 
Your Children" and "Rational Punishment," and along 
the lines of their advisement Mrs. Pettison intended to 
speak at once. Indeed, wherever possible she used the 
exact words of the editor. 

"Come, my little son and daughter," she said, starting ia 
at once and in a high-comedy voice, as tlie twins lagifingly 
approached, "let us have a friendly chat t<^ether," 

It sounded ominous from the very beginning. To be 
"friendly" with one's mother smacked of the terrible, so 
the twins' eyes bulged with fear, and they said nothing. 

The magazine had made no provision whatever for any- 
thing but a joyous receptiveness, and Mrs. Pettison felt as 
if she had somehow run off the track, but she was too 
full of her subject to stop. 

"We all make mistakes, grown folks as well as chil- 
dren," she continued, modulating her voice to tender grief 
— as advised — "and I myself have made mistakes — sad 
ones, sad ones — " 

she paused and waited for the sudden look of love and 
sympathy which she had been told would be hers, hut she 
did not get it, nor anything like it ; her humble admission 

• OopjTlslX. IMW, b7 8. S. UcCIOre Co. 


Cftt i&peafcec 343 

then and there lowered her very many degrees in the 
twins' respect, 

"But a mistake may always be corrected," went on Mrs. 
Pettison, confusedly. Only a strong sense of duty kept 
her at it. 

The children in the magazine had made sweet little re- 
marks, leading to an exchange of many beautiful thoughts; 
but the twins did nothing but awesomely gawk at her. 

"I am going to try new methods of punishment. Scold- 
ing and whipping are irrational, and therefore useless. Yet 
wrong-doing must be corrected. But how? A little pa- 
tient thought will surest the penalty, which must be the 
logical outcome of the wrong itself. Then it is accepted 
as inevitable and right even by the sufferer. Shall we 
try this better way?' 

She smiled a winsome invitation to them to open their 
hearts to her, but they had no reply to make. 

Persisting bravely with her part, Mrs. Pettison put one 
arm around Rex and the other around Regina, and kissed 
them both. 

"Go, now, dears, and think it over." 

According to the printed articles, the charming conver- 
sation should have hallowed a full half hour, and here it 
was, over as soon as commenced, after having led abso- 
lutely nowhere. 

The twins skimmed from sight as soon as they decently 

"Sister, we aren't going to get spanked any more — " 


"Nor scolded — " 


"But something queer is going to happen — " 


"I'm going to find out rig^t now," 


"By being bad." 

When it dawned upon her that he intended to be wilfully 
naughty, but nobly, for investigation's sake, she inter- 
ested herself to help him out. 

"What kind of lad are you going to be?" 

He gazed around the room searching for inspiration to 
crime and not finding it, for his gentle little soul was moral 
to inanity. But Regina's eyes glittered hopefully. 


344 Q^e S^stktt 

"Up there are some things we mustn't toucK" 

Without so much as a comment. Rex dragged a chair to 
the mantel, climbed up, and pushed a vase into space. 

The crash which it made as it came to pieces on the 
floor brought Mrs, Pettison quickly upon the scene. 

"My little son forgot himseU and handled something he 
has been forbidden to touch. Moreover, he was careless, 
as well as disobedient and let the pretty vase fall. How 
must we teach him to remember what he is told and maJce 
him feel vexed that he has destroyed a thing o£ beauty?" 

After some serious consideration, she went out of the 
room, and left the twins frightened, yet diverted. 

When she came back she brought with her nothing more 
awful than a ball of string. A piece of this she slipped 
through a fragment of vase which chanced to have a 
handle left intact, and she tied the sinful trophy to Rex's 
arm, explaining the while the significance of her punish- 
ment by telling him that the constant feel of the broken 
china would distress and shame him and bring him to 
wish that he had never touched it, while the constant sight 
of it would grow hateful to him and depress him with sor- 
row for his wanton destructiveness. With all this, she en- 
twined very prettily the story of the "Ancient Mariner" 
and the slain albatross which was hung upon the destroy- 
er's neck, symbolizing the weight of sin, and she wound 
up by telling him that she hoped so to develop his spiritual 
nature that the mere sense of guilt would soon drag him 
down more degradingly than any bit of porcelain tied to 
his arm. 

It was really beautifully thought out, and would have 
been worth money to her it sent to the editor of Privileges, 
but the twins, knowing they were being "improved," tried 
to hear as little of it as possible— except that Rex was 
drawn to "albatross" as something new in fowls. 

For a short while Rex stood rigid with stiff arm ex- 
tended while he viewed his mark of crime from different 
angles — and with growing approval. Then he tried walk- 
ing about, and his pride in it grew as it swung and dan- 
gled. He felt it to be not only a pleasantly unusual adorn- 
ment for a little boy, but a highly entertaining one by 
reason of the thrilling sound of breaking crockery which 
it gave out every time that it knocked against some furni- 


8^ dpealttt 346 

He had not been so amused, so satisfied, so mentally fed 
and refreshed in a long while; and Regina, the Innocent, 
the Unpunished, the Undisgraced, sat in lonely dejection, 
with nothing to do but watch his orgy of content, 

"Why don't you come and play with me?" 

"I can't. I am having too much fun with the — the — ^the 
albatross." And he clinked it deliciously against the door- 

"I'll get an albatross, too," cried Regina, maddened by 
jealousy ; and without a minute's hesitation she jumped to 
the chair and hurled the remaining vase to the floor. 

Rex's stupor of amaze, her own unfeigned horror at the 
actual consummation of the deed made it impossible for 
her mother to think this disaster anything but another "ac- 
cident" — for of course Mrs. Pettison heard the second 
crash and came in a second time. 

Consistency demanded that Regina get a bangle, too, 
but no poetical selection from Coleridge accompanied this 

"You are a very, very naughty little girl," said Mrs. 
Pettison, sharply, and she tied some china to the culprit 
with quite angry jerks and with a tighter twist than was 
at all necessary, but the fragment was small — R^na's 
smash had been thorough. 

"Mine's a baby albatross," said the smasher, compla- 
cently, as soon as her mother had left the room. 

Now that the children were similarly equipped, they had 
a lovely time together, and put their novel toys to every 
conceivable and inconceivable test. They began to warm 
up tenderly to punishments. 

"What shall we smash next?" asked Regina, leaning 
mentally in the direction of a magnificent Satsuma um in 
the parlor. 

■ "We'll — we'll be bad some other way," authoritatively 
said Rex. He had the saner mind and realized that the 
limitations of smash had been reached. 

All sports pall in time, and the twins gradually desisted 
from their exuberant cracking of furniture, and drew near 
each other to take hold of hands — a friendly trick of theirs 
when weary. The contact, brinpng their bits of Iwic-a- 
brac t(^ether with a clash, flecking a splinter from each, 
recalled to Regina the game which is played with Easter 


346 fC^e dpeat(( 

"Let's chip albatrosses," she said, stoically, and sat 
down on the floor. 

Nothing averse, Rex sat down, too, and the war was on. 
Clash followed clash, and chips flew frantically, till finally 
each combatant came off victorious with but a bracelet of 
string left. 

Their mother, who had entered and silently witnessed 
the contest, deemed it wise to take this disposal of the al- 
batrosses as a matter of course, so she merely made the 
twins clear up the chips, and then she reminded them that 
it was time for them to go to their desks to write the usual 
half-page in their copy-books and hear each other an- 
swer geography questions. Secretly, she was worried, for 
never until to-day in all their sternly-ordered, meekly- 
obedient little lives had the twins shown the least trace of 
naughtiness. She comforted herself with the belief that 
the worst was now over, for the children, now sedate as 
dormice, went tractably to work. Reassured, she left them 
to themselves again. 

"What's an island?" Regina demanded, peremptorily. 

"An island is land surrounded by water," Rex said. 
Then a pained look came on his face as if he loathed the 
necessity, but he leaned forward, pen in hand, put a blot on 
R^na's waist — for the land — and drew a scalloped circle 
around it — for the water. He tapped the picture with his 
pen and repeated his definition. 

It needs to be impressed that heretofore an accidental 
blot no bigger than a pin point had been sufficient to set 
them both into sobbing convulsions of fright. 

As the island grew upon her, Regina had one brief, 
embryonic spasm, and then she understood. Rex was again 
martyrizing himself." 

"What is a lake?" he asked. 

He had an apt pupil. Regina seized her pen and stirred 
it around in the ink bottle. 

"Lake's water!" gabbled she (blot on Rex's shirt) 
"s'rounded bland,' (Scalloped circle.) "What's a strait?" 

"A strait" — and here Rex sketched upon his sister's yoke 
something resembling a pair of spectacles — "is a channel 
of water connecting two larger bodies of water. What is 
a river?" 

"A river" — said she, dithering with delight as she ran 


a zigzag streak of black lightmng down his front pleat — 
"is water flowing through the land, Whee! What's a 

"A hill," said he, abandoning the pen and dipping his 
finger in the bottle, "is a low elevation of land." Here he 
dabbed a cone-like smudge upon Regina's shoulder. 
"What is a mountain?" 

"Mountain's a high elevator of land !" she shrieked, 
drunken with joy. Inking her whole hand, she streaked 
him with an "elevator" that reached from his belt to his 
chin. Now was she frenzied indeed, and hissed mean- 
ingly, "What is an ocean ?" 

He took the dare, even though he paled under the mag- 
nitude of the sin thrust upon him. 

"The lar^st body of water," he said, methodically pour- 
ing the entire bottle into Regina's lap. 

This naturally concluded the lesson ; there was no more 

The mother came in, and, catching sight of their really 
awful condition, was literally stunned and dumb-stricken. 
All she could do was to wave them away from her. When 
speech finally returned to her, it was so far beneath the 
occasion that it sounded tame. 

"Get out of ^my sight as quickly as possible," she be^ed, 
"before I say or do what I should not. Oh, do go ! Later, 
when we are all calmer, we will talk over this frightful oc- 
currence; for rest assured I shall demand a full explana- 
tion. Not that your punishment will wait till then — no, 
indeed. I shall attend to that at once and severely. 
Listen ! / forbid you to change those disgraceful garments. 
You shall take your outing in them, you shall see visitors 
in theni — if visitors come — ^you shall go to the supper 
table in them, you shall wear them till bedtime, even if 
your hearts and mine break with the humiliation. Now go. 

When they left the room, Mrs. Pettison burst into tears 
over the problem. The twins did not know that, of course, 
and danced away perfectly happy ; if there was one thing 
they hated worse than another, it was their afternoon rai- 
ment of white pique. The stuff was always starched as 
stiff as tin, and it creased if it was looked at crosseyed. 
When creased it was done for. If the twins had the ill- 


348 CC|c i&pcakrt 

luck to sit on a peachstone or kneel on a blackberry, thejr 
were in the worst sort of a fix. And to think they couM 
wear their nice comfortable messy suits all afternoon ! To 
think that they could actually go out in them and tell every- 
thing to all the other little boys and girls! It was too 
good to be true. And why should not visitors know about 
it? The more the merrier. And as for supper — again, 
why not? Was not their father going to be absent? Of 
course he was, thank heaven! Yes, really and really, it 
was too good to be true. 

The ensuing hour was positively the happiest they re- 
membered. When they were forced to go out with Cathe- 
rine, the "help," it was she who suffered, not they. They 
strutted to the utmost, pointing out their adornments in 
dumb sign to all their passing cronies. 

When it came to be the neighborhood of suppertime and 
the street grew dull, Rex thought out another excitement. 

"Sister, 1 begin to see how this thing works, do you? 
When we do something bad we have to keep on doing it" 


"Well, we'll go now and steal some jam." 

Which they immediately did. It was not hard to man- 
age, with Catherine making disappearances into the din- 
ing-room to put supper on the table. Of course, discovery 
was swift, but then, discovery was their aim, 

"Some bad angel possesses you," cried Mrs. Pettison, 
despairingly, but still clinging to her ideals. "You think 
you want jam — I'll prove to you how mistaken you are — 
come to the table, and see!" 

A large dish of jam was set before them, and their beef 
brofh was removed. When they understood that they 
were to help themselves plentifully to jam, they wondered 
if they had not fallen into fairyland. Requesting bread, 
they were denied it. 

"Nothing but jam," said Mrs, Pettison, sternly, her 
sympathetic stomach recoiling from the fearful fate. 

The twins perceptibly cheered and tucked into the jam at 
a great rate. They had aimed at this happiness, but the 
result exceeded belief. The next course would have been 
sandwiches of stale bread, sparsely buttered and served 
with weak cocoa. This, too, they were mercifully spared. 

"Help yourselves to jam," ordered their mother, in die 


91)e SbptsXxt 349 

tone of an executioner. The twins' being mellowed under 
the aflHiction, and they stowed away jam enough for a 
long winter. 

They rose from the table oozing contentment from every 
pore, and Mrs. Pettison wearily kept her seat to ponder 
upon the situation. 

Out in the hall— 

"Regina, didn't that jam make you thirsty?" 


"Come into the pantry and we'll open a bottle of grape 

But they had been overheard and pursued, and while 
they were trying to unscrew the cap of the bottle the 
wrath fell — and the shameless, degrading irrationality of 
that wrath would have pained the whole editorial staff of 

When they had wept themselves almost to a pulp, and 
their sobs came a little further apart. Rex's broken voice 
crept from somewhere in the darkness of the nursery: 

"Regina, I think we'd better be good." 

"I thought it first," she hiccoughed. 

And since it was upon her that the chastening first fell, 
perhaps she did. 

Cradle Hsmin 


Away in a manger, no crib for a bed, 

The little Lord Jesus laid down His sweet head. 

The stars in the bright sky looked down where He lay— 

The little Lord Jesus asleep on the hay. 

The cattle are lowing, the baby awakes. 

But little Lord Jesus, no crying He m^es. 

I love Thee, Lord Jesus! look down from the sky. 

And stay by my cradle till morning is nigh. 



360 C^f djwattt 

"A Kentucky Cinderella"* 


[Of the few literary men who read well in public, F. 
Hopkinson Smith is easily among the best. With this gift 
he seems to write in a s^le that lends itself to recitation, 
so that many of his stories are popular as readings. In 
"The Other Fellow," in which is to be found "A Kentucky 
Cinderella," there are several stories which Mr. Smith 
has given in public with great success — "A Water-logged 
Town" and "One of Bob's Tramps,"] 

Was bending over my easel, hard at work upon 
a full-length portrait of a young girl in cos- 
tume of fifty years ago, when the door of my 
studio opened softly, and Aunt Chloe came in. 
" Good-ma wn in', suh! I didn't think you'd 
come to-day, bein' a Sunday. I'll jes' sweep 
up a III mite ; doan' ye move ; I won't 'sturb ye." 

"Mus' be mighty driv, suh, a-workin' on de Sabbath day. 
Golly, but dat's a purty lady ! ( I see it las' Sunday when I 
come in, but she didn't had dem ruffles 'round her neck 
den you done gib her.) 'Oar to goodness, dat chile 
look like she was jes' a-^wine to speak. Well, if dat doan' 
beat de Ian'. I ain't never seen none o' dem frocks since 
de ole times. An' dem lil low shoes wid de ribbons crossed 
on de ankles! She's de livin' pussonecation — she is so, 
for a fac'. Uhm ! Uhm t" 
"Does it look like anybody you ever saw. Aunt Qiloc?" 
"It do an' it don't. De feet is like hem, but de eyes 

"O, Miss Nannie." 

"Who was Miss Nannie?" I asked, carelessly. 
"One o' my chillen, honey." 

"Tell me about her. It will help me to get her eyes right, 
so you can remember her better. Where did she live ?" 

"Where dey all live — down in de big house. She warn't 
Marse Henry's real chile, but she come o' de blood. She 

•Cnpnteht,ls».bTr.H(ipUn!(ni Smith. S^miited tv pMViMaa oT the utbot 
knd Uie pubUihan, llougtitoD. NlOllD & Co. 


C^t S^ptafat 351 

didn't hab dem kind o' shoes on her footses when I fust see 
her, but she wore 'em when she lef me. Dat she did. — 
My! My! ain't dat de ve'y image of dat frock? I kin sec 
it now jes' as Miss Nannie come down de stairs. Dey 
didn't care nuifin for her much. Let 'er go roun' barefoot 
half de time, an' her hair a-flyin'. Alius makes my blood 
bile to dis day whenever I think of de way dey treated dat 
chile. But it didn't make no diff'ence what she had on — 
shoes or no shoes — her footses was dat HI, An' purty! 
Wid her big eyes an' her cheeks jes' 's fresh as dem rose- 
water roses dat I used to snip off for ole Sam to put on de 
table. Oh! I tell ye, if ye could picter her like dat dey 
wouldn't be nobody clear from here to glory could come 
nigh her. 

"Yes, sub, down in the blue grass country, near Lex- 
in'ton, Kentuck, whar my ole master, Marse Henry Gor- 
don, lived, I used to go eve'y year to see him after de 
war was over, an' kep' it up till he died. Dere wam't no- 
body like him den, an' dere ain't none now. An' I love 
him yet, an' if he was a-livin to-day I'd work for him an' 
take care of him if I went hungry myse'f. De only fool 
thing Marse ever done was a-marryin' dat widow woman 
for his second wife. How Marse Henry Gordon come to 
marry her nobody don't know till dis day. She warn't 
none o' our people, an' she wam't nuffin, nohow." 

"Was Miss Nannie her child?" I asked, 

"No, suh, dat she wam't ! She was Marse Henry's own 
sister's chile, she was. Her people lived up in Indiany, an' 
dey was jes' 's po' as watermelon rinds, and when her 
mother died Marse Henry sent for her to come live wid 
him, 'cause he said Miss Rachel — dat was dat woman's 
own chile by her fust husband — was lonesome. 

"I remember de ve'y day Miss Nannie come. I seed 
her comin' down de road totin' a big banlwx, an' a carpet 
bag mos' big's hei'se'f. Den she turned in de gate. 'Fo' 
God,' I says to ole Sam, who was settin' de table for din- 
ner, 'who's dis yere comin' in?' Den I see her stop an' 
set de bundles down an' catch her bref, an' den she comes 
on agin. I see right away dat woman was up to one of 
her tricks ; she didn't 'tend to let dat chile come no other 
way 'cept like a servant; she was dat dirt mean. WeH, 
suh, I dropped my dishcloth, an' I run out to meet 'er. 

:y Google 

352 CClx ^eofcet 

"'Is you Miss Nannie?' I says. 'Gimme dat bag,' I 
says, 'an' dat box.' 

" 'Yes,' she says, 'dat's me, an' ain't you Aunt Chloe, 
what I heard so much about ?^ 

"When she got to de house, me a-totin' de things on be- 
hind, de mist'ess comes out on de po'ch. 

" 'Oh, dat's you, is it, Nannie?' she says. 'Well, Chloe'll 
tell ye where to go,' an' she went straight in de house 
agin. Never kissed her, nor touched her, nor nuffin! 

"Purty soon Miss Rachel come down an' went up an' 
kissed her — dat is, Sam said so, though I ain't never seen 
her kiss her dat time nor no other time. Miss Rachel 
never liked Miss Nannie from de fust, she was dat cross- 
grained and pemicketty. No matter what Miss Nannie 
done to please her, it wam't good 'nough for her." 

"Did they send her to school?" I asked. 

"No, suh, dat dey didn't. But dey sent Miss Rachel to 
a real highty-tighty school, dat dey did, down to Louis- 

"Purty soon long come de time when Miss Rachel done 
6nish her eddication, an' she come back to de big house an' 
sot herse'f up to 'ceive company. De fust real out-an'naut 
beau she had was Dr. Tom Boling. He lived 'bout fo'teen 
miles out o' Lexin'ton on de big plantation, an' was de 
richest young man in our parts. If ye could 'a' seen de 
mist'ess when she'd see him comin' in de gate ! All in his 
ridin' boots an' his yaller breeches an' twttle-green coat, 
an' his servant a-ridin' to hold de horses. 

"Ole Sam an' me was a-watchin' de mist'ess peekin' 
th'ough de blind at him, her eyes a-blazin' an' Sam laughed 
so be had to stuff a napkin in his mouf to keep 'en from 
hearin' him. Miss Nannie, she's watch him, too, from be- 
hind de kitchen door, an' den she'd tell Dinah an' me what 
he did, an' how he got off his horse an' han' de reins to 
de boy, an' slap his boots wid his ridin' whip, like he was 
a-dustin' off a fly. An' she'd act it all out for me an' 
Dinah, an' slap her own frock, an' den she'd laugh fit to 
kill herse'f an' dance all 'round de kitchen." 

" 'Co'se people 'gin to talk, an' ev'yhody said dat Dr. 
Boling was gittin' nighest de coon, an' dat fust thit^ dey'd 
know dere would be a weddin' in de Gordon fambly." 

"Well, one day, suh, I was a-standin' in de door, an' I 
see htm come in a-foot like he say to himse'f, 'Lemme in; 


Cf); i&pfaltn 353 

I'm in a hurry; I got somethin' on my mind.' Ole Sam 
was jes' a-gwme to open de do' for him when Miss Nan- 
nie come a-runnin' in de kitchen from de yard, her cheeks 
like de roses, her hair a-flyin', an' her big hat hangin' to a 
string down her back, an' I says to her, 'Run, honey,' I 
says, 'an open de do* for ole Sam ; I -spec', I says, 'it's one 
o' dem peddlers.' 

"I wish you could 'a' seen dat chile's face when she 
come back ! She was white one minute, an' red as a beet 
de nex', 'Oh, Aunt Chloe, what did you let me go for ?' 
she says. 'Oh ! I wouldn't a' let him see me hke dis for 
anything in de world. Oh, I'm dat put out.' 

" 'What did he say to ye, honey ?' I says. 

" 'He didn't say nuffin' ; he jes' look at me an' say he beg 
my pardon, an' was Miss Rachel in, an' den I said I'd run 
an' tell her, an' when I come downstairs agin he was a 
standin' in de hall wid his eyes up de staircase, an' he 
never stopped lookin' at me till I come down,' 

" 'Well, dat won't do you no harm, chile,' I says ; 'a cat 
kin look at a king.' 

"Ole Sam was a-watchin' her, too, an' when she'd gone 
in her leetle room an' shet de do' Sam says, 'I'll lay if 
Marse Tom Boling had anything on his mind when he 
come here to-day 'it's mighty onsettled by dis time,' 

"De nex' time he comes he says, 'I hear dat yo'r niece, 
Miss Nannie Barnes, is livin' wid you, an' dat she is ve'y 
'sclusive. I hope dat you'll 'suade her to come in de parlor,' 
he says. Dem was his ve'y words. Sam was a-standin' 
close to him as I am to you, an' he heard him. 

'"She ain't yet in s'ciety,' de mist'ess says, 'an' she's 
dat wild dat we can't p'esent her.' 

"'Oh! is dat so?' he says. 'Is she in now?' 

" 'No,' she says, 'she's over to Mis' Morgan's.' An' over 
he goes to Mis' Morgan's hisse'f. 

"Dat night, when Marse Henry come home an' heard 
"bout dat visit, he made Miss Nannie sit down in de par- 
lor, when Dr. Boling come, an' 'fo' he went home dat 
night de doctor he says to Marse Henry, 'I want yo' per- 
mission. Mister Gordon, to pay my addresses to Miss Nan- 
nie, yo' niece.' Sam was a-standin' close as he could git 
to de door, an' he heard ev'y word. But I tell ye de 
doctor had a hard time a-gittin' her, even when Marse 
Henry gin his consent An' he never would 'a' got her 


354 9!^t S^O.tXt 

if Miss Rachel, jes' for spite, I spec', hadn't 'a' married 
Colonel Todhunter's son dat was a-co'rtin' on her, too. 
Den Miss Nannie knowed she was free to follow her 
own heart" 

"Purty soon come de weddin'. I'll never forgit dat . 
weddin' to my dyin' day. Marse Tom Boling driv in wid 
a coach an' four an' two outriders, an' de horses wore 
white ribbons on dere ears ; an' de coachman had flowers 
in his coat mos' big as his head, an' dey whirled up in 
front of de po'ch, an^ out he stepped In his blue coat an' 
brass buttons an' a yaller wais'coat — yaller as a gourd — 
an' his bell-crown hat in his ban'. She was a-waitin' for 
him wid dat white satin dress on, an' de chain 'round her 
neck, an' her HI footses tied up wid silk ribbons de ve'y 
match o' dem you got pictered, an' her face shinin' like 
a angel. An' all de niggers was a-standin' 'roun' de po'ch, 
dere eyes out'n dere heads, an' Marse Henry was dere in 
his new clo'es, lookin' so grand, an' Sam in his white 
gloves, an' me in a new head han'chief. 

"Eve'ybody was happy 'cept one. Dat was de mis'tess, 
standin' in de door. She wouldn't come out to de coach, 
an' Miss Rachel was dat mean she wouldn't come down- 

"Miss Nannie gib Marse Tom Boling her han' an' look 
up in his face like a queen, an' den she kissed Marse 
Henry, an' whispered somethin' in his ear dat nobody 
didn't hear, only de tears 'gin to jump out an' roll down 
his cheeks, an' den she looked de mist'ess full in de face, 
an' 'thout a word dropped her a low curtsey. 

"I come de las'. She looked at me for a minute, wid 
her eyes a-swimmin' ; an' den she th'owed her arms roun' 
my neck an' hugged an' kissed me, an' den I see an arm 
shp 'roun' her wais' an' lif her in de coach. Den de 
horses gin a plunge, an' dey was off. 

"An' arter dat dey had five years — de happiest years 
-dem two ever seen, I know, 'cause Marse Henry gin me to 
her, an' I lived wid 'em day in an' day out, an' den — " 

Aunt Chloe stopped and reached out her hands as if to 
steady herself, the tears streaming down her cheeks. Then 
she advanced a step, fixed her eyes on the portrait, and in 
a voice filled with emotion, said: 

"Honey, chile, — honey, chile,— is you tired a-waitin' for 
yo' o!e mammy? Keep a-waitin', honey — keep a-watchin' 
— It won't be long now 'fore I come. Keep a-watchin'." 


C!)e ShptaHttt 355 

At Lincoln's Tomb 

From "Poems All the Way from Pike." 
(Being the Reminiscences of the Hon. Jason Pettigrew, 
of Calhoun County, III., in 1895,) 

Abe Lincoln? Wull, I reckon! Not a mile f'om where 

we be. 
Right here in Springfiel', Illinoise, Abe used to room with 

He represented Sangamon, I tried it for Calhoun, 
And me and Abe was cronies then ; I'll not forgit it soon. 

I'll not forgit them happy days we used to sort o' batch 
Together in a little room that didn't have no latch 
To keep the other fellers out that liked to come and stay 
And hear them dasted funny things Abe Lincoln used to 

Them days Abe Lincoln and myself was pore as anything. 
Job's turkey wasn't porer, but we used to laff and sing. 
And Abe was clean chuck full o' fun; but he was sharp 

as tacks, 
For that there comic face o' his'n was fortified with fac's. 

Some fellers used to lal{ at Abe because his boots and 

Appeared to be on distant terms; but when he'd get a 

He'd give 'em sich a drubbin' that they'd clean forgit his 

For Abe made up in common sense the things he lacked 

in books. 

WuU, nex' election I got beat, and Abe come back alone ; 
I kep' a-clinkin' on the farm, pervidin' for my own. 
You see, } had a woman, and two twins that called me paw ; 
And Abe, he kep' a-clinkin', too, at politics and law. 

I didn't hear much more of Abe out there in old Calhoun, 

For I was out o' politics and kinder out o' chune 

With things that happened; but 'way back I'd named my 

two twin boys — 
One Abraham, one Lincoln; finest team in Illinoisel 


356 G^e Spealt«c 

Wull, here one day I read that Abe's among the candidates 
(My old friend Abe!) for President o these United 

States ; 
And though I had the rheumatiz and felt run down and 

I entered politics ag^n and helped to pull him through. 

And when nex' spring he called for men to fetch their 

grit and guns 
And keep the ship o' State afloat, I sent him both my sons. 
And would a' gone myself and loved to make the bullets 

'F it hadn't b'en I couldn't walk account o' rheumatiz. 
Wull, Abe — my little Abe, I mean — he started out with 

They buried him at Shiloh. . , Excuse me, but I can't 
Help feelin' father-like, you know, for them was likely 

The' wasn't two another sich that went f 'om lUinoise ! 

And Lincoln — my son Lincoln — he went on by hisself, 
A-grievin' for his brother Abe they'd laid upon the shelf, 
And when he come to Vicksburg he was all thrashed out 

and sick; 
And yet, when there was fightin', Link fit right in the thick. 

One night afore them Rebel guns my pore boy went to 

On picket dooty. . . No, sir, 'tain't the shame that 

makes me weep: 
It's how Abe Lincoln, President, at Washington, D. C- 
Had time to ricolleck the days he used to romn with me I 

For, don't you know I wrote him they'd sentenced to be 

His namesake, Lincoln Pettigrew, in shame to die and rot! 
The son of his old crony, and the last o' my twin boys 
He used to plague me so about, at Springfield, Illinoise. 

Did he? Did Abe? Wull, now, he sent a telegraph so 

It burnt them bottles on the poles and made the lightnin' 

"I pardon Lincoln Pettigrew. A, Lincoln, President." 
The boy has got that paper yit, the telegraph Abe sent. 


ir^ S^anut 357 

I guess I knowed Abe Lincoln! And now I've come 

down here — 
Firs' time I b'en in Springfiel' for nigh on sixty year — 
To see his grave and tombstone, because — because you see, 
We Instated in cahoots, Abe Lincoln did, and me. 

Mammy's Pickanin' 

(Written for The Speaker.) 

Now, whah d'ye s'pose dat chile is ? 

My, he's got a head! 
He's a hidin' frum his mammy 

'Case it's time to go to bed. 

Hyah, you, Petah JohnsingI 

Come inside dat fence. 
I done tole you yes'day 

You didn't hab no sense. 

What's dat? Awaitin' fo' yo' daddy? 

(Bress his little hea't!) 
Why. chile! Yo' daddy won't be comin' 

Froo dat woodsy pa't 

At dis time ob de ebenin'. 

Don't you sec dat moon ? 
Dat's de sign dat spooks 

'LI be a trabelin' soon. 

I b'lieve I see 'em 
Comin' — Massy me! 
'As sho' as you is breavin' 
Dar's one mhind dat tree! 


Ha ! Ha I I t'ought dat 'd bring him. 

Come hyah, sweety hon'. 
Come to yo' ole mammy. 

An' if dose spoddes come 

An' want my pickaninny, 

I'll swat 'em in de face; 
I'll take dar flowin' ga'ments, 

An' jest wipe up de place. 

I'll take dat ar bu'nt hoe-cake, 

An' hit 'em on de head. 
Till dey'll be glad to go away. 

An' let my baby go to bed. 

So, don't cry no mo', my honey, 

Jes' close yo' little eye, 
An' mammy'U rock ye in her a'ms. 

An' sing de — 

CloM 70* ejrai Mxaaaft little b* • bj boy, Den hiah-*-b7e. 

Now, what's de mattah, honey? 

Ain't you neber gwine ter sleep? 
What's dat? Why, chile! 
Dose spookies ain't a-comin' ; 

Dey's gwine off down de street 

Now shet yo' eyes up tight. 

An' go right off to sleep ; 
An' to-morrow for yo' breakfus' 

Youll hab possum for to eat. 
So, don't cry no mo', my honey. 

jes' dose yo' little eye, 
Wliile mammy rocks you in her a'ms 

An' sii^s de (music). 


The Old DoU 


Little one, little one, open your arms. 

Now are your wishizs come true, come true! 
Here is a love with a thousand charms, 

And see! she is reaching her hands out to you! 
Put the old doll by, asleep let her lie. 

And open your arms to welcome the new. 

Little one, little one, play your sweet part. 

Mother-love lavishes treasures untold ; 
Whisper fond words, and close to your heart. 

Your warm little heart, the new idol enfold. 
('Tis so with us all, — to worship we fall 

Before the new shrine, forgetting the old!) 

Little one, little one, wherefore that sigh? 

Weary of playing the long day through? 
But there's something that looks like a tear in your eye, 

And your lips — why, your lips are quivering, too ! 
Do I guess aright ? — it is coming night. 

And you cry for the old — you are tired of the new? 

Little one, little one, old loves are best ; 

And the heart still clings though the hands loose their 
Take the old doll back, in your arms she shall rest, 

When you wander away to the dreamland fold, 
(With all, even so, — ere to sleep we go, 

The wavering heart wavers back to the old!) 


360 die BptaSxt 

Santa Claus 


He comes in the night! He comes in the night! 

He softly, silently comes; 
While the litUe brown heads on the pillows so white 

Are dreaming of bugles and drums. 
He cuts through the snow like a ship through the foam. 

While the white flakes around him whirl ; 
Who tells him I know not, but he findeth the home 

Of each good little boy and girl. 

His sleigh it is long, and deep, and wide ; 

It will carry a host of things, 
While dozens of drums hang over the side, 

With the sticks sticking under the strings. 
And yet not the sound of a drum is heard. 

Not a bugle blast is blown, 
As he mounts to the chimney-top like a bird, 

And drops to the hearth like a stone. 

The little red stockings he silently fills. 

Till the stockings will hold no more ; 
The bright little sleds for the great snow hills 

Are quickly set down on the floor. 
Then Santa Claus mounts to the roof like a bird, 

And glides to his seat in the sleigh ; 
Not a sound of a bugle or drum is heard 

As he noiselessly gallops away. 

He rides to the East, and he rides to the West; 

Of his goodies he touches not one; 
He eateth the crumbs of the Christmas feast 

When the dear little folks are done. 
Old Santa Qaus doeth all that he can ; 

This beautiful mission is his; 
Then, children, be good to the little old man. 

When you find who the little man is. 


Little Christel 


Slowly forth from the village church, — 
The voice of the choristers hushed overhead,— 
Came little Christel, She paused in the porch. 
Pondering what the preacher had said. 

Even ike youngest, humblesl child 
Something may do to please the Lord; 

"Now, what," thought she, and half-sadly smiled, 
"Can I, so little and poor, afford? — 

"Never, never a day should pass 

Without some kindness, kindly shoim. 

The preacher said"— then down to the grass 
A skylark dropped, like a brown-winged stone. 

"Well, a day is before me now ; 

Yet, what," thought she, "can I do, if I try? 
If an angel of God would show me how ! 

But silly I am, and the hours they fly." 

Then the lark sprang singing up from the sod. 
And the maiden thought, as he rose to the blue, 

"He says he will carry my prayer to God ; 
But who would have thought the little lark knew?" 

Now she entered the village street, 

With book in hand and face demure. 
And soon she came, with sober feet. 

To 3 crying babe at a cottage door. 

It wept at a windmill that would not move; 

It puflfed with round red cheeks in vain. 
One sail stuck fast in a puzzling groove. 

And baby's breath could not stir it again. 


362 fT^ ^pealtrv 

So baby beat the sail and cried, 

While no one came from the cottage door ; 
But little Christel knelt down by its sidCj 

And set the windmill going once more. 

Then babe was pleased, and the little girl 
Was glad when she heard it laugh and crow ; 

Thinking, "Happy windmill, that has but to whirl. 
To please the pretty young creature so." 

No thought of herself was in her head. 
As she passed out at the end of the street, 

And came to a rose-tree tall and red, 
Drooping and faint with the summer heat. 

She ran to a brook that was flowing by. 
She made of her two hands a nice, round cup. 

And washed the roots of the rose-tree high, 
Till it lifted its languid blossoms up. 

"O happy brotrfc !" thought little Christel, 
"You have done some good this summer's day. 

You have made the flowers look fresh and well 1" 
Then she rose and went on her way. 


Cf)e Sbvt&ixt 363 

Seven Times One 


There's no dew left on the daisies and clover; 

There's no rain left in heaven ; 
I've said my "seven times" over and over, — 

Seven times one are seven, 

I am old — so old I can write a letter ; 

My birthday lessons are done; 
The lambs play always; they know no better; 

They are only one times one. 

moon ! in the n^ht I have seen you, 
And shining so round and low ; 

You were bright! ah, bright, but your light is failing; 
You are nothing now but a bow ! 

You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven, 
That God has hidden your face? 

1 hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven. 
And shine again in your place. 

O velvet bee! you're a dusty fellow. 

You've powdered your legs with gold ; 
O brave marshmary buds, rich and yellow I 

Give me your money to hold. 

O columbine I open your folded wrapper, 
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell ; 

cuckoo-pint, toll me the purple clapper 
That hangs in your clear green bell. 

And show me your nest, with the young ones in it; 
I will not steal them away ; 

1 am old! — ^you may trust me, linnet, linnet; 
I am seven times one to-day. 





Came up in the cold, 

Through the brown mouM, 
Although the March breezes 

Blew keen on her face. 
Although the white snow 

Lay on many a place. 


Had heard under ground, 

The sweet rushing sound 
Of the streams, as they broke 

From their white winter chains. 
Of the whistling spring winds. 

And the pattering rains. 

"Now then," thought Daflfy, 

Deep down in her heart 

"It's time I should start" 
So she pushed her soft leaves 

Through the hard, frozen ground, 
Quite up to the surface, 

And then looked around. 

There was snow all about her. 

Gray clouds overhead ; 

The trees all looked dead: 
Then how do you think 

Poor DafFy-down felt. 
When the sun would not shine, 

And the ice would not melt? 

"Cold weather I" thought DaflFy, 

Still working away ; 

"The earth's hard to-day. 
There's but a half inch 

Of my leaves to be seen. 
And two-thirds of that 

Is more yellow than green. 


W^ 3ptaftfT 

"I can't do much yet ; 

But I'll do what I can: 

It's well I began. 
For, unless I can manage 

To lift up my head, 
The people will think 

That Spring herselfs dead." 

So, little by little. 

She brought her leaves out. 

All clustered about ; 
And then her bright flowers 

B^an to unfold. 
Till Daffy stood robed 

In her spring green and gold. 

O Daffy-down-dilly, 

So brave and so true! 

I wish all were like you, — 
So ready for duty 

In all sorts of weather, 
And loyal to courage 

And duty tt^ther. 


366 G!i( ^pcafcet 

The Ant and the Cricket 


'A silly young cricket, accustomed to sing 

Through the warm, sunny months of gay summer and 

Began to complain, when he found that at home 
His cupboard was empty and winter was come. 

Not a crumb to be found 

On the snow-covered ground; 

Not a flower could he see, 

Not a leaf on a tree : 
"Oh, what will become," said the cricket, "of me?" 

At last by starvation and famine made bold, 

All dripping with wet and all trembling with cold. 

Away he set off to a miserly ant, 

To see if, to keep him alive, he would grant 

Him shelter from rain: 

A mouthful of grain 

He wished only to borrow. 

He'd repay it to-morrow : 
If not, he must die of starvation and sorrow. 

Said the ant to the cricket, "I'm your servant and friend, 

But we ants never borrow, we ants never lend; 

But tell me, dear sir, did you lay nothing by 

When the weather was warm ?" Said the cricket, "Not I. 

My Iieart was so light 

That I sang day and night. 

For all nature looked gay," 

"You sang, sir, you say? 
Go, then," said the ant, "and dance winter away." 
Thus ending, he hastily lifted the wicket 
And out of the door turned the poor little cricket. 
Though this is a fable the moral is good: 
If you live without work, you must live without food. 


9l^t dprafcn 367 

Cradle Hjmin 


Hush, my dear, lie stilJ and slumber; 

Holy angels guard thy bed ; 
Heavenly blessings without number 

Gently falling on thy head. 

Sleep, my babe, thy food and raiment. 
House and home, thy friends provide; 

All without thy care, or payment, 
All thy wants are well supplied. 

How much better thou'rt attended 

Than the Son of God could be, 
When from heaven He descended, 

And became a child like thee ! 

Soft and easy is thy cradle; 

Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay. 
When His birthplace was a stable, 

And His softest bed was hay. 

See the kindly shepherds round him, 

Telling wonders from the skyl 
When they sought Him, there they found Him, 

With His Virgin-Mother by. 

See the lovely babe a-dressing ; 

Lovely infant, how He smiled ! 
When He wept, the mother's blessing 

Soothed and hushed the holy child. 

Lo, He slumbers in His manger. 

Where the honest oxen fed ; 
Peace, my darling! here's no danger I 

Here's no ox a-near thy bed ! 

M^st thou live to know and fear Him, 
Trust and love Him all thy days; 

Then go dwell forever near Him, 
See His face, and sing His praise. 


368 CCfx Sb9t3kn 

I could ^ve thee thousand kisses. 

Hoping what I most desire; 
Not a mother's fondest wishes 

Can to greater joys aspire. 
^ > J» 

The Usual Way 

There was once a little man. and his rod and line he took. 
For he said, "I'll go a-fishing in the neighboring brook." 
And it chanced a little maiden was walking out that day, 

And they met — in the usual way. 
Then he sat him down beside her, and an hour or two 

went by. 
But still upon the grassy brink his rod and line did lie; 
"I thought," she shyly whispered, "you'd be fishing all 

the day ?" 

And he was — in the usual way. 
So he gravely took his rod in hand and threw the line 

But the fish perceived distinctly he was not looking out ; 
And he said, "Sweetheart, I love you;" but she said she 

could not stay. 

But she did — in the usual way. 
Then the stars came out above them, and she gave a little 

As they watched the silver ripples like the moments run- 
ning by; 
"We must say good-by," she whispered, by the alders old 

and gray. 

And they did — in the usual way. 
And day by day beside the stream, they wandered to and 

And day by day the fishes swam securely down below, 
Till this little story ended, as such little stories may. 

Very much — in the usual way. 
And now that they are married, do they always bill and 

Do they never fret and quarrel like other couples do ? 
Does he cherish her and love her^ Does she honor and 


Well, they do — in the usual way. 


The Lark and the Rook 


"Good-night, Sir Rook," said a little lark. 

"The daylight fades ; it will soon be dark ; 

I've bathed my wings in the sun's last ray ; 

I've sung my hymn to the parting day ; 

So now I haste to my quiet nook 

In yon dewy meadow — good-night. Sir Rook!" 

"Good-night, poor Lark," said his titled friend. 

With a haughty toss and a distant bend ; 

"I also go to my rest profound. 

But not to sleep on the cold, damp ground. 

The fittest place for a bird like me 

Is the topmost bough of yon tall pine-tree. 

"I opened my eves at peep of day 
And saw you takir^ your upward way. 
Dreaming your fond romantic dreams. 
An ugly speck in the sun's bright beams ; 
Soaring too high to be seen or heard; 
And said to myself : 'What a foolish bird !' 

"I trod the park with a princely air, 

I filled my crop with the richest fare; 

I cawed all day 'mid a lordly crew, 

And made more noise in the world than you. 

The sun shone forth on my ebon wing; 

I looked and wondered — good-night, poor thing!" 

"Good-night, once more," said the lark's sweet voice. 

"I see no cause to repent my choice ; 

You build your nest in the lofty pine, 

But is your slumber mwe sweet than mine? 

You make more noise in the world than I, 

But whose is the sweeter minstrelsy?" 


)7o C^( i&peafter 

"Spacially Jim" 


I was mighty good lookin' when I wus young. 
Peart, an' bladc-eyed, an' sHm, 
With fellers a-courtin' me Sunday nights, 
'Spacially Jim, 

The likeliest one of 'em all wus he ; 
Chipper an' han'some an' trim ; 

But I tossed up my head an' made fun o' the crowd, 
'Spacially Jim. 

I said I hadn't no 'pinion o' men. 
An' I wouldn't take stock in him ! 
But they kep' on a-comin' in spite o' my talk, 
'Spacially Jim. 

I got so tired o' havin' 'em roun' — 

('Spacially Jim!) 
I made up my mind I'd settle down 

And take up with him. 

So we was married one Sunday in church, 
'Twas crowded full to the brim; 
'Twas the only way to get rid of 'em all, 
'Spacially Jim. 


Cfic ^peaftfi 371 

A Gondola Race* 

[Adopted from "Gondola Days." Published by Hough- 
ton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by permission o£ the author 
and publishers.] 

T^^^^""^HE day was made for a regatta; a cool, crisp, 
I bracing October day; a day of white clouds 
I and turquoise skies, of flurries of soft winds 
n that came romping down the lagoon, turned 
I for a moment in play, and then went scam- 
I pering out to sea; a day of dazzling sun, of 
brilliant distances, of clear-cut outlines, black shadows, 
and flashing lights. 

As we neared the Public Garden the crowd grew denser ; 
the cries of the gondoliers were incessant. The professor 
entered the garden from the side door of the corridor, and 
took the vacant seat beside me. He was bubbling over with 
excitement. "To-day," he said, "you shall see, not the an- 
nual regatta, but an old-lime contest between the two fac- 
tions of the gondoliers, the Nicoletti and Castellani ; a con- 
test really of and for the Venetians themselves." 

"The course is to begin at Lido, running thence to the 
great flourmill up the Guidecca, and down again to the 
stakeboat off the Public Garden. Guiseppe is to row, and 
Pasquale, both famous oarsmen ; Carlo, the brother of Gas- 
pari, who won the great regatta; better than all, young 
Pietro, of the Traghetto of Santa Salute. He rows with 
his brother Marco. Look out for him when he comes 
swinging down the canal. If you have any money to 
wager, put it on him. Gustavo, my waiter at Florian's, 
says he is bound to win. His colors are yellow and white." 

The only clear water space was the ribbon of silver be- 
ginning away up near the Redentore,. between the tails of 
the two sea monsters, and ending at the stakeboat. Else- 
where, on both sides, from the Riva to San Giorgio, and 
as far as the wall of the garden, was a dense floating mass 
of human beings, cheering, singing and laughing, waving 
colors, and calling out the names of their favorites in rapid 

The spectacle on land was equally unique. The balus- 
trade of the boardwalk of the Public Garden was a huge 
* Copjrigbt, 1897, by F. Hopkinson Smith. 


372 tctif 3]»aftrc 

flowerbed of blossoming hats and fans, spotted with myr- 
iads of parasols in full bloom. Bunches of over-ripe boys 
hung in the trees, or dropped one by one into the arms of 
gendarmes below. The palaces along the Riva were a 
broad ribbon of color with a binding of black coats and 
hats. The wall of San Giorgio fronting the barracks was 
fringed with yellow legs and edged with the white fatigue 
caps of two regiments. Even over the roofs and tower of 
the church itself specks of sightseers were spattered here 
and there, as if the joyous wind in some mad frolic had 
caught them up in very glee, and as suddenly showered 
them on cornice, sill, and dome. 

Beyond all this, away out on the lagoon, towards the 
islands, the red sailed nshing-boats hurried in for finish, 
their canvas aflame against the deepening blue. Over all 
the sunlight danced and blazed and shimmered, making 
glad and gay and happy every soul who breathed the 
breath of this joyous Venetian day. 

None of all this was lost upon the professor. He stood 
in the bow of the boat drinking in the scene, sweeping his 
glass around like a weather-vane, straining his eyes up the 
Guidecca to catch the first glimpse of the coming boats, 
picking out faces under flaunting parasols, and waving 
aloft his yellow rag when some gondola swept by flying 
Pietro's colors, or some boatload of friends saluted in 

Suddenly there came down on the shifting wind, from 
far up the Giudecca, a sound like the distant baying of a 
pack of hounds, and as suddenly died away. Then the 
roar of a thousand throats, caught up by a thousand more 
about us, broke on the air, as a boatman, perched on a 
masthead, waved his hat. 

"Here they come ! Viva Pietro ! Viva Pasquale ! Cas- 
tellani ! Nicoletti ! Pietro !" 

The dense mass rose and fell in undulation, like a great 
carpet being shaken, its colors tossing in the sunlight. Be- 
tween the thicket of "ferros" away down the silver rib- 
bon, my eye caught two little specks of yellow capping two 
white figures. Behind these, almost in line, were two 
similar dots of blue ; farther away other dots, hardly dis- 
tinguishable, on the horizon line. 

The gale became a tempest — the roar was deafening; 
women waved their shawls in the air; men, swinging their 
hats, shouted themselves hoarse. The yellow specks devel- 


oped into handkerchiefs bound to the heads of Pietro and 
his brother Marco; the blues were those of Pasquale and 
his mate. 

Then as we turn our eyes, the two tails of the sea mons- 
ters twist and clash together, closing in upon the string of 
rowers as they disappear in the dip behind San Giorgio, 
only to reappear in full sight, Pietro half a length ahead, 
straining every sinew, his superb arms swinging like a 
flail, his body swaying in splendid, springing curves, the 
water rushing from his oar blade, his brother bending aft 
in perfect rhythm. 

"Pietro ! Pietro !" came the cry, shrill and clear, drown- 
ing all other sounds, and a great field of yellow burst into 
flower all over the lagoon, from San Gioi^o to the Gar- 
den. The people went wild. If before there had been only 
a tempest, now there was a storm. The waves of blue and 
yellow surged alternately above the heads of the throng as 
Pasquale and Pietro gained or lost a foot. The professor 
grew red and pale by turns, his voice broken to a whisper 
with continued cheering, the yellow rag streaming above 
his head, all the blood of his ancestors blazing in his face. 

The contesting boats surged closer. You could see the 
rise and fall of Pietro's superb chest, the steeMike grip of 
his hands, and could outline the curves of his thighs and 
back, the ends of the yellow handkerchief, bound about his 
head, were flying in the wind. His stroke was long and 
sweeping, his full weight on the oar; Pasquale's stroke 
was short and quick, like the thrust of a spur. 

Now they are abreast. Pietro's eyes are blazing — Pas- 
quale's teetii are set. Both crews are doing their utmost. 
The yells are demoniac. Even the women are beside 
themselves with excitement. 

Suddenly, when within five hundred yards of the goal, 
Pasquale turns his head to his mate ; there is an answering 
cry, and then, as if some unseen power had lent its 
strength, Pasquale's boat shoots half a length ahead, slack- 
ens, falls back, gains again, now an inch, now a foot, now 
clear of Pietro's bow, and on, on, lashing the waters, suit- 
ing forward, springing with every gain, cheered by a thou- 
sand throats, past the red tower of San Giorgio, past the 
channel of spiles off the Garden, past the red buoy near 
the great warship — one quick, sustained, blistering stroke, 
until the judge's flag drops from his hand, and the great 
race is won. 


374 Cl)c ^ptgikrt 



[Extract from an address delivered before the Republi- 
can Club of Buffalo, 1905.] 

iTHiN less than half a century this man, once 
despised, once derided, once distrusted and 
mali^ed, has been transfigured, in the light 
of universal history, so that all men, and all 
generations of men, may see him and make 
out, if possible, the manner of man he was. 
His life in this world was not long, less than three score 
years, only ten of them visible above the dead level of af- 
fairs. Yet into that brief space events were crowded, so 
stupendous in their ultimate significance, that we findour- 
selves laying down the narrative which records them with 
a strange feeling coming over us, that maybe, after all, 
we are not reading about a man at all, but about some 
mysterious personality, in the hands of the higher Powers, 
with a supernatural commission to help and to bless the 
human race. 

Some have told us that he was a great lawyer. He was 
nothing of the sort. It is true that he grasped without ap- 
parent effort the principles of the common law, and his 
faculties were so normal and complete that he did not need 
a commentary, nor a copy of the Madison papers, thumb- 
marked by the doubts and fears of three generations, to 
make him sure that the men who made the Constitution 
were building for eternity. But he practiced law without 
a library, and all who were acquainted with him testify 
that in a law suit he was of no account, unless he knew the 
right was on his side. It was against his intellectual and 
his moral grain to accept Lord Bacon's cynical suggestion 
that there is no way of knowing whether a cause be good 
or bad till the jury has brought in its verdict. 

The familiar judicial circuit around Springfield, where 
he cracked his jokes about the office stove in country tav- 
erns, where he spoke to everybody by his first name and 
everybody liked to hear him talk, did much for him in 
every way; but the noble profession, so ably represented 


cr^e S^ptaitt 375 

about this board, will bear me witness that an attorney 
who gives his advice away for nothing, who does not have 
the foresight to ask for a retainer, and usually lacks the 
business Ulent to collect his fee, whatever other merits 
he may have, is not cut out by nature for a lawyer. I have 
talked with many of the otd-time members of the bar at 
which he used to practice law, thinking all the while of 
other things, and from what they say 1 cannot help believ- 
ing that the notion even then was slowly forming in his 
mind, that he held a brief, with power of attorney from on 
high, for the unnumbered millions of his fellow men, and 
was only loitering around the county-seats of Illinois until 
the case came on for trial. 

Some tell us that he was a great orator. If that is so, 
the standards of the schools, ancient and modern, must be 
thrown away. Perhaps they ought to be ; and when they 
are this curious circuit-rider of the law, who refreshed his 
companions with wit and argument from the well of Eng- 
lish undefiled; this champion of civil liberty, confuting 
Douglas with a remorseless l<^c, cast in phrases rich with 
the homely wisdom of proverbial literature ; this advocate 
of the people, head and shoulders above his brethren, 
stating their case before the bar of history, in sentences so 
simple that a child can follow them; surely such a one 
cannot be left out of the company of the masters who have 
added something to the conquests of the mother tongue. 
He was dissatisfied with his modest address at Gettysburg, 
read awkwardly from poorly-written manuscript, and 
thought Edward Everett's oration was the best he had 
ever heard; but Mr. Everett himself discerned without a 
minute for reflection, that the little scrap of crumpled 
paper which the President held in his unsteady hand that 
day would be treasured from generation to generation 
after his own laborious deliverance had been forgotten. 
The old school of oratory and the new met on that rude 
platform among the graves und^r the trees, and congratu- 
lated each other. They have not met very often since, for 
both of them have been pushed aside to make room for the 
essayists, the declaimers, the statisticians, and other en- 
terprising pedlars of intellectual wares, who have de- 
scended Tike a swarm on all human deliberations. 

He has been described as a great statesman. If by that 
you mean that he was trained in the administrative mech- 


376 fCle SiptaMn 

anism of the government, or that he was wiser than his 
day in the creed of the party in whose fellowship he passed 
his earlier years, there is little evidence of that at all ; the' 
most that can be said is that he clung to the fortunes of the 
old Whig leadership through evil, as well as good, report, 
and that he stumped the county and afterwards the State ; 
but the speeches which he made, neither he nor anybody 
else regarded it important to preserve. His platform from 
the first was brief and to the point. ''I am in favor of a 
national bank. I am in favor of the internal improvement 
system, and a high protective tariff." But while for half 
his life he followed Henry Qay, like a lover more than a 
disciple, yet when that popular hero died and Lincoln was 
selected to make a memorial address in the old State 
House, he dismissed the principles of his party creed with- 
out a word, and reserved his tribute for the love of liberty 
and the devotion to the Union which shone even to the 
end, in that superb career. 

To speak of Lincoln as a statesman, whatever adjectives 
you use, opens no secret of his biography and rather seems 
to me to belittle the epic grandeur of the drama in which 
he moved. Of course he was a statesman ; exactly so, 
Saul of Tarsus, setting out from Damascus, became a fa- 
mous traveler, and Christopher Columbus, inheriting a 
taste for the sea, became a mariner of high repute. 

There are some who have given a study, more or less 
profound to the official records of the rebellion who make 
of Lincoln an exceptional military genius, skillful in the 
management of armies and prepared better even than his 
generals to give direction to their movements. I doubt 
this very much. He was driven into the war department 
by the exigency of the times, and if he towered above the 
ill-fitting uniforms which made their way, through one in- 
fluence and another, to positions of brief command during 
the first campaigns of the Civil War, it is not very high 
praise after all. One thing, however, he must be given 
credit for; he perceived the size of the undertaking which 
he had in hand, and he kept looking until his eyes were 
weary for the man who could grasp the whole field and 
get out of the army what he knew was in it. It broke his 
heart to see its efforts scattered and thrown away by quar- 
rels among its officers, endless in number, and unintelligi- 
ble for the most part to the outside world. When he passed 


C!)i i&pealcet 377 

the command of the Army of the Potomac over to General 
Hooker, he did it in terms of reprimand and admonition, 
which read like a father's last warning to a wayward son. 
He told him that he had wronged his country, and done a 
gross injustice to a brother officer. Recalling Hooker's 
insubordinate suggestion that the army and the govern- 
ment both needed a dictator, he reminded htm that "only 
those generals who gain successes can set up dictators," 
and added, with a humor as grim as death, "What I now 
ask of you is military success, and I will risk the dictator- 
ship." If the general did not tear up his commission when 
he read that letter it was because he was brave enou^ to 
bear the severity of the naked truth. 

All this time he had his eye upon a man in the West, 
who had been doing an extensive business down in Ten- 
nessee, "a copious worker and fighter, but a very meagre 
writer," as he afterwards descrifcd him in a telegram to 
Bumside. He had watched him with attentive interest, 
noticing particularly that his plans always squared with 
the event ; that he never regretted to report ; and, after 
Vicksburg fell and the tide of invasion had been rolled 
back from the borders of Maryland and Pennsylvania, he 
wrote two letters, one to General Meade, calling him to 
a stem account for not following up his victory, and one 
to General Grant, directing him to report to Washington 
for duty. The letter to General Meade, now resting 
peacefully in Nicolay's collection of the writings of Un- 
coln, all the fires of its wrath long since gone out, was 
never sent. But General Grant got his. And from that 
day there were no more military orders from the White 
House, no exhortations to advance, no despatches to move 
upon tfie enemy's works. He still had his own ideas how 
the job ought to be done, but he did not even ask the 
general to tell him his. He left it all to him. And, as the 
plan of the. great captain unfolded, he sent to his head- 
quarters this exultant message : 

"I begin to see it. You wiU succeed. God bless you all. 
"A. Lincoln." 

And so these two, each adding something to the other's 
fame, go down to history together; God's blessing falling 
like a benediction upon the memory of both. 


378 e^t SbvtaMtK 

An Opera 


[From "Stories of the Street and Town," in the "Chi- 
cago Record,"] 

_ ^ % "- TvLER paid seven dollars for two opera tick- 
I l^iV I ets. Although he slept through one duet he 
I ItA I felt fully repaid for going, because Mrs. Ty- 
1 ler raved over the opera and wasted all of her 
1 superlatives on it, 

The music was "heavenly," the prima 
donna "superb," and the tenor "magnificent." There is 
nothing so irritates a real enthusiast as the presence o£ 
calm scorn, 

"Don't you like it?" asked Mrs. Tyler, as she settled 
back after the eighth recall of the motherly woman who 
had been singing the part of a sixteen-year-old maiden, 

"Oh, yes; it's all right," replied Mr. Tyler, as if he 
were conceding something. 

"All right! Oh, you iceberg! I don't believe you would 
become enthusiastic over anything in the world," 

"I like the music, my dear, but Grand Opera drags so. 
Then the situations are so preposterous they always ap- 
peal to my sense of humor. I can't help it. When I see 
Romeo and Juliet die, both singing away as if they en- 
joyed it, I have to laugh." 

"The idea!" 

"You take it in this last act. Those two fellows came 
out with the soldiers and announced that they were con- 
spiring and didn't want to be heard by the people in the 
house, and then they shouted in chorus until they could be 
heard two miles away." 

"Oh, you are prejudiced." 

"Not at all. I'll tell you, a grand opera is the funniest 
kind of a show if you only take the right view of it." 

Thus they argued, and even after they arrived home 
she taunted him and told him he could not appreciate the 
dignity of the situation. 

It was this nagging which induced Mr. Tyler to write 
an act of grand opera. He chose for his subject an alarm 
of fire in an apartment house. He wanted something 


(T&e ShptaHtn 379 

modem and up-to-date, but in his treatment he resolved 
to reverently follow all the traditions of grand opera. 
The one act is here given. 

Scene. — The apartment of Mr. and Mrs. Tyler. Mr. 
Tyler is discovered reading a newspaper. Enters Mrs. T., 
who advances to the center of the room. 

Mrs. T. — I think I smell smoke. 

Mr. T. — She thinks she smells smoke. 

Mrs. T. — I think I smell smoke. 

Mr. T'.^-Oh, what is this ? She thinks she smells smoke. 

Mrs. T.— 

What does it mean ? 

What does it mean? 

This smell of smoke may indicate 

That we'll be burned. Oh, awful fate 

That we'll be burned. 

Oh-h-h-h, awful fate. 
Mr. r.— 

Behold the smell grows stronger yet, 

The house is burning. I'd regret 

To perish in the curling flames. 

Oh, horror! Oh, horror I Oh, .horror! 
Mr. and Mrs. T. (Duet)— 

Oh, sad is our lot, sad is our lot. 

Sad is our lot, sad is our lot. 

To perish in the flames so hot. 

To curl and writhe and fry and sizz. 

Oh, what an awful thing it is 

To think of such a thing. 
Mrs. T. — We must escape, 
Mr. T. — Yes, yes ; we must escape. 
Mrs. T. — We have no time to lose, 
Mr. r.— Ah. bitter truth! Ah, bitter truth! 

We have no time to lose. 
Mr. and Mrs. T. (Duet, as above) — 
Mr. 7".— Hark! What is that? 
Mrs. 7".— Hark, hark! What is that? 
Mr. T. — It is the alarm of fire. 

Mrs. 7".— Ah, yes! Ah, yes! It is the dreadful alarm. 
Mr. r.— 


3S0 Cfir ^peaiter 

The dread alarm strikes on the ear 

And chills me with an awful fear. 

The house must bum ; oh, can it be 

That I must die in misery? 

That I must die in misery, 

That I must die in misery. 

The house will bum ; oh, can it be 

That I must die in misery? 
Mrs. T. — Come, let m fly, 
Mr. T. — 'Tis well, 'tis well; we'll fly at once. 
(Enter all the other residents of the fifth floor. They 
range themselves in a semi-circle behind Mr. and Mrs, T.) 
Mr. T.— 

Kind friends, I have some news to tell; 

This house is burning, it is well 

That we should haste ourselves away, 

And save our lives without delay. 

Oh, let us not remain too long, too long, too 

Oh, let us not remain too long. 
Women of the Chorus — 

What is this he tells us ? 
It must be so. 
The building is on fire 
^nd we must go. 
Men of the Chorus — 

(Same as women.) 
Grand Chorus — 

Oh, hasten ; oh, hasten ; oh, hasten away. 

Our terror we could not conceal. 

And language fails to express the alarm 

That in our hearts we feel. 
Mr. and Mrs. T. (Duet)— 

Ah-h-h, langu^e cannot express the fear 

That in our hearts we feel. 
(Enter janitor.) 
Janitor — Hold! I am here! 
Mr. T. — Ah, it is the janitor. 
Mrs. r.— 

Can I believe my senses. 

Or am t going mad ? 

It is the janitor. 

It is indeed the janitor. 


Janitor — Such news I have to tell. 
Mr. T. — Ah, I might have known 

He has some news to tell. 
Mrs. T. — Speak and break the awful suspense. 
Mr. r.— Yes, speak. 

I come to inform you 

That you must quiddy fly ; 

The fearful blaze is spreading; 

To tarry is to die. 

The floors underneath you are completely burned away; 

They cannot save the building — so now escape, I pray. 

The flames are roaring loudly — 

Oh, what a dreadful sound ; 

Vou can hear the people shrieking 

'As they leap and strike the ground. 

Oh, horror overtakes me. 

And I merely pause to aay 

That the building's doomed for certain — 

So haste, oh haste away. 

Mrs. T.— 

Oh, awful message ! How it chills my heart. 

Yet we will sing a few more arias 

Before we depart. 
Mr. T.— 

Yes, yes I A few more arias 
And then away. 
Grand Chorus — 

Oh hasten, oh hasten, oh hasten away. 

Our terror we could not conceal, 

And language fails to express the alarm 

That in our hearts we feel. 
Mrs. T.— 

Now, ere I retreat 

Lest death overtake me, 

I'll speak of the fear 

Whidi convulses and shakes me. 

I sicken to think of what may befall. 

Oh, horror, horror, horror. 
Mr. Tj— The woman Bpeaks the truth 
'And there can be no doubt 
That we will perish soon 
Unless we all clear out 


382 C!ie ^peaitet 

Grand Chorus— 

Oh, hasten, etc. 
This is as far as Mr. T. could go. He didn't want to 
make his principals actually "Hasten away," as that would 
be a violation of grand opera tradition. His theory is 
that they remained and were burned, 
> > > 

A Little Knight-Errant 

(Written for The Speaker.) 
What ! Me afraid ? Well, I guess not— 
I am a boy! Had you forgot? 
If you'll just hold my hand real tight. 
We'll pass that little dog all right. 

You see, you're just a girl, Lucile, 

And girls are scary; they just squeal 

At nearly everything they see; 

But boys are brave. Now you watch mel 

Shoo, dog, I say! If you don't run, 
I'll shoot you with this big pop-^n 
That Uncle Joel gave to me 
On my birthday. 'Tis loaded, see! 

Look there, Lucile, he's trotting off; 

1 scared him awful, sure enough; 

He doesn't know (talk easy, please!) 

I've shot off all my bag of pease. 

He's coming back. But don't he look 

Just like that lion in my book? 

I b'iieve he's mad — he's such a sight — 

'And dogs that's mad — run! — run! — he'll bite! 

Now, what's the use, Lucile, to cry? 

That dog was only passing by. 

He didn't look at us at all . . , 

I don't see why you had to fall. 

And muss your dress all up, like that; 

And look there in the ditch ; your hat 

Is ruined for good! Mamma will scold — 

For you're a big girl, four years old. 


My blouse? Well, I don't care, so now! 
I've got another, anyhow. 
Here is my gan, all broken ! Come. 
Next time I'm going to leave you home. 

^ J» J» 

Jane Jones* 


"Jane Jones keeps talkin' to me all the time 

An' says you must make it a rule 
To study your lessons 'nd work hard 'nd leam, 

An' never be absent from school. 
Remember the story of Elihu Burritt, 

An' how he clum up to the top. 
Got all the knowledge 'at he ever had 

Down in a blacksmithin' shop? 
Jane Jones she honestly said it was so! 
Mebbe he did— 

I dunno! 
O' course what's a-keepin' me 'way from the top 
Is not never havin' no blacksmithin' shop. 
"She said 'at Ben Franklin was awfully poor, 

But full of ambition an' brains, 
An' studied philosophy all his hull life. 

An' see what he got for his pains! 
He brought electricity out of the sky, 

With a kite an' a bottle an' key. 
An' we're owing him mor'n any one else 

For all the bright lights 'at we see, 
Jane Jones she honestly said it was so! 
Mebbe he did — 

I dunno! 
O' course what's allers been hinderin' me 
Is not bavin' any kite, lightning, er key. 
"Jane Jones said Abe Lincoln had no books at all, 

An' used to split rails when a boy; 
An' General Grant was a tanner by trade 

An' lived 'way out in Ill'nois. 
So when the great war in the South first broke out 

He stood on the side o' the right, 

• From Ben King's Vase, pablished by Foibes & Co. 


3H [€^t S^ptBMXK 

An' when Lincoln called him to take cliai^e o' 
He won nearly every blamed fight. 
Jane Jones she honestly said it was so! 
Mebbe he did — 

I dunnot 
Still I ain't to blame, not by a big sight, 
For I iun't never had any battles to fight. 

"She said 'at Columbus was out at the knees 

When he first thought up his big scheme. 
An' told all the Spaniards and Italians, too, 

An' all of 'em said 'twas a dream. 
But Queen Isabella jest listened to him, 
'Nd pawned all her jewels o' worth, 

'Nd bought him the Santa Maria, 'nd said, 
'Go hunt up the rest o' the earth!' 
Jane Jones she honestly said it was so! 
Mebbe he did — 

I dunno! 
O' course that may be, but then you must allow 
They ain't no land to discover jest now." 

^ ^ > 

San Francisco Desolate 

[Read by Mrs. Fiske at the Metropolitan Opera House in 
New York, at a benefit for the sufferers.] 

A groan of earth in labor-pain, 

Her ancient agony and strain ; 

A trembling on the granite floors, 

A heave of seas, a wrench of shores, 

A crash of walls, a moan of lips, 

A terror on the towers and ships ; 

Tom streets where men and ghosts go by; 

Whirled smoke mushrooming on the sky, 

Roofs, turrets, domes with one acclaim 

Turned softly to a bloom of flame, 

A mock of kingly scarlet blown 

Round shrieking timber, tottering stone ; 

A thousand dreams of joy, or power. 

Gone in the splendor of an hour. 


3ti&e)c of aut^orjs. 

ADB, GBOSOB, An Opera 378 




BARK, ROBERT, " OentlemeD, the King " lOd 

BARBIE, J. M^ The Courting of T^owhead'a BeU 300 

BARRETT. WILSON, The Sign of tha Crow 101 



BLAKE, MARY E., The Wonderful Country of Good-Boy Land 287 

BONAR, HORATIO, Be True 886 

BROOKS. PHILLIPS, little Town of Bethlehem 817 


Rhyme of the Duchew May 87 

BROWNING, ROBERT, Good Morning 27« 

RUNNER, H, C, One, Two, Three 83 

BUNYAN, JOHN, The Shepherd Boy Singe 823 

BURNS, ROBiaiT, A ChihTB OnM 860 

CAINE, HALL, John Storm^ Reaolntion 308 

GATHERWOOD, MARY HARTWRLL, A Nlf^t in Ste. Pilagie 187 

CARLYLE, THOMAS, To-day 225 

CHILD, LYDIA MARIA, Who Stole the Bird's NertT 848 

CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH, With Whom There la No Varia- 

bleneM 171 

3, QEOROB WILLIAM, Burna 124 

Leadership of Edocated Men 34 




little Nell 2S8 

The Only Way m 

D0B80N, AUSTIN, The Roae and the Gardaner 57 

The Cap that flte Kg 

The Cnrfi'a Progreea 80 

DOLUVER. JONATHAN P.. Lineohi 874 

DUNNE, nNLEY PETER, Mr. Dooley on tha Grip 85 

DRAKE, JOSEPH R.. The American Flag 812 

DUNBAR, PAUL LAURENCE, Po' little Lamb 248 

little Brown Baby 260 

Dawn 11 

The Photograph 8T 


ja>n'0RIAL8 : page 

Foundation for Beading 1 

Rwtding an Education Scheme 2 

Misconception of Iteoding 3 

The Cult of True Faith 3 

Successful Cont«Bt Numbers 97 

A Worthy Theme SB 

Creative Reading 99 

Interpretative Heading 100 

Selections for Children 193 

Frose or Poetry 193 

An Exercise Not an ExliibitiaD IM 

The Joy of Rhyme 194 

Reading is Talking J95 

Vocal Interpretation Test of Reading 196 

Hemorizing Reading Leasona , . . . 197 

Bread and Butter Studies 2B9 

Present Conditions 290 

Our Great Orators 291 

Beecher and the English Language 292 

EDWARDS, E. S., The Trial of Ben Hiomas tSl 

EUOT, GEORGE, The Mill on the Floss 314 

EMERSON, RALPH WALDO, Concord Hymn 254 

Duty 261 

EWINO, JUUANA H., Laetus Sortie Mea 271 

YIELD, EUGENE, Bill, the Lokil Editor 12 

FORD, ROBERT, The Bonniest Bairn in a' the Worl' 220 

FERGUSON. JAMES, Auld Daddy Darknesa 240 

FRENCH, WILLARD, The Lance ot Kanana 188 


How She Went Into Business 28 

Brother Wolf and the Homed Cattle 201 

HARRISON, BENJAMIN, A Plea for Patriotism 110 

HERRICK, ROBERT, A Grace for a Child 212 

The Star Song 2I« 

HILL, MARION, The Day of Precious Penalties 342 

HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL, Old Ironsides 253 

HOOD, THOMAS, Queen Mab 215 

HOPE. ANTHONY, The Prisoner of Zenda 135 

The Philosopher in the Apple Orchard 61 

HUGO, VICTOR, Jean Valjean and the Bishop 38 

HUBBARD, ELBERT, A Measage to Garcia 68 

INOELOW. JK\N, Seven Times One 363 

JENKINS, LUCT DEAN, Mammy's Pickanin' 361 

KING, BEN, The CushviUe Hop 21 

Lovey- Loves M 

Jane Jones 883 

KINGSLET, CHARLES, A Farewell 223 

The Lost Doll 244 




KlMJNa, RUDYAED, WHh Any AmftBMBMit : 78 

How tbe Slephant Got His Trunk 295 

My SivaJ 327 

KN0WIJ:S, SHERIDAN, The HimdibMk . 


LANGSTON, JAMES, For D«ir Old Yale .:.. u» 

LBAR, EDWARD, The Owl and the PQfHf-Oit 241 


LONDON, JACK, The CaU of the WUd 131 

LOVE, ROBEETUS, At Lincoln's Tomb 3SS 

LOVER, SAMUEL, The Angel's Whisper 248 

LUTHER, MARTIN, Cradle Hjmn 3W 

LYTTON, BULWER, Richelieu 157 


McCUTCHEON, GEORGE BARR, The AdTOcate'a Ple« 144 

MelLVAINE, CHARLES, Coom, Lusie, Be Good to M« 43 

McKINLEY, WILLIAM, Lut Speech of 180 

MORGAN, BESSIE, "'Spwrially Jim" 370 

UULOCH, DINAH MARIA, Green Things Growing £20 


PARKER, THEODORE, The Children of the Poor 122 

POE, EDGAR AUxAN, The Fall of tbe House of Usher 70 

The TeU-Tale Heart 148 

POOLE, ERNEST, The Slow Man 4S 

RAND, WILLIAM B.. Little Chriat«I 361 

RICHARD, MARGARET A., A Little Knight -Errant 382 

RILEY, JAMES WHITCOMB, Bud's Fairy Tale 262 

ROBERTS, CHARLES G. D., Miranda and Her Friend Kroof . . . 277 

R0STA2n>, EDMOND. The History Lesson from L'Aiglou 6 

SCHREINER, OLIVE, Tbe Artist's Secret 6 

SCHURZ, CARL, Eulogy on Charles Sumner £03 

SCOTT, SIR WALTER, My Native L*nd 286 

LdlUby of an Infant Chief 252 

SIENKIEWIGZ, HENRY, Arena Scene from Quo Vadis IS 

SLOSSON, ANNIE TRUMBULL, The Boy That Was Soaret o' 

Dyin' 268 

SMITH, F. HOPKINBON, A Kentucky Cinderella 350 

A Gondola Ra« 371 


From a Railway Carriage £33 

Whole Duty of Oitldren 234 

Looking Forward 329 

SWAIN, JOHN D.. Francois Villon About to Die 323 

SWIFT, JONATHAN, A Riddle 808 

TENNYSON, LORD, What Does little BirdJe Say t 270